


Mission Interrupted

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant With Seasons 1 And 2 But Not 3 And 4, Elements of Seasons 3 and 4, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, John-Friendly, Kidnapped Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mycroft's Meddling, No Johnlock!, No Mary Morstan, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock is a Mess, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, holmescest, very slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25930801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock has jumped off the rooftop of St. Bart's. He is ready to go on his mission to dismantle Moriarty's network. But someone has other plans...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 188
Kudos: 159





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



> To get into the right mindset, have a re-watch of this devastating suicide scene (which is slightly edited but true to the original). I watched the original scene several times during writing this story and probably a million times before. Reichenbach is my favourite episode and this scene is just heart-wrenching and it explains the strong (but platonic!) Sherlock&John feels of this story: 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4WwN2asemI

Sherlock had never felt that exhausted in all his life. Chasing criminals through half of London by foot – piece of cake. Being awake fifty hours straight – no problem.

But when he slumped on the seat right now, he felt as if he had been chewed and spat out by some alien creature, wherever this weird metaphor had come from as he didn’t believe in aliens… His body felt as if he was a ninety-year-old on a particularly bad day and his soul… Yes, it was mainly his soul that felt like a wrung-out sponge.

The past few weeks had been horrible – extremely busy and filled with deceiving people who meant a lot to him. All this hassle, the suspicious looks, Donovan having a field day… And today had been the icing on an inedible cake – seeing Moriarty kill himself and jumping off a roof… That he had done that to save his friends’ lives and had been prepared to do it didn’t make it much more bearable.

John. God, he had to be devastated. It had broken Sherlock’s heart to tell him lies and then ‘die’ right in front of him. But Moriarty’s accomplices would have attacked him without mercy. Sherlock had had no choice. He had wanted to confide in John but Mycroft had told him that this would be madness. John had to grieve for real or the ruse would blow up. And Sherlock knew that Mycroft was right about that.

Would he ever see Mrs Hudson again? She was an old lady after all. Who knew how long he would have to be away… And if anything happened to her, she would leave his world thinking that he was dead and had, above all, killed himself because he was a fraud.

Would Lestrade solve a single case without him? Hopefully, he would turn to Mycroft if he was out of his depth. Well… Then Mycroft would probably have no time at all to do his own job…

They had worked together surprisingly smoothly over the past weeks; hardly ever had they argued, and Sherlock trusted his older brother to guide him through the mission they had so meticulously planned. Mycroft had told him that he would always just be a phone call away. Which was way too far if Sherlock got into any deadly danger of course, but Sherlock knew how to hold himself in a fight. Well, not right now, obviously… He felt shattered. More tired than ever before. He had trouble keeping his eyes open.

“Sir, would you like tea?”

Sherlock nodded and produced something like a smile for the young man who was offering him a deliciously smelling mug. Certainly not a flight attendant as Sherlock was the only passenger of the small private plane. An agent more likely. Big brother wanted to make sure that he landed in Ukraine smoothly as it seemed. So far, they had not left the discreet government airport though.

He sipped at the strong, hot tea and finally closed his eyes. He didn’t even notice that he fell asleep within a minute and that the mug was deftly taken out of his hand before he could spill the fluid which had not been simple tea but a ‘minor’ government official’s special mixture.

*****

When he woke up, he felt tremendously refreshed. He was… lying on a bed. A very comfortable king size bed, a fluffy blanket spread over him. And… it was dark. How long had he slept? And how had he gotten here?! And where was ‘here’ at all?

He hurried to disentangle himself from the blanket and a quick check told him that he was wearing pyjamas. New ones – he didn’t own any with buttons. His hand searched for a lamp on the bed stand, and soon the room was bright. A big, luxurious room. Shelves filled with books. Science books, mostly. A wardrobe was half-open and he could spot clothes. His brands but not his own clothes.

This was not a hotel room. It was a bedroom in a house. He stalked to the window and opened the curtains. It was completely dark out there apart from the moonlight. No street lamps. No street… A house in the middle of nowhere. But if he’d had to bet, he would have said he was certainly not in Ukraine.

“Ah, you’re awake, brother dear.”

Sherlock whirled around and saw Mycroft, in full three-piece-suit armour, standing in the door. He was watching him with an expression of polite indifference – on the surface. Beneath that, Sherlock could see caution. Even a hint of fear. Sheepishness. But also smugness. Yes. That was the dominating expression.

Realisation dawned on him. “I’ve never left England, have I?” he asked tonelessly. And he realised that he had not even started to fear that he had been brought to this place by someone working for Moriarty. In fact, without acknowledging it, he had known from the start that it was his brother’s bidding.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “No, as a matter of fact, we are in Croydon.”

Only about twenty kilometres away from London. Sherlock's heart rate increased. “You had me drugged on the plane and then brought here…” He saw himself being dragged out of the plane and stuffed into the trunk of a black government car. With Anthea in the driver’s seat…

“Quite so,” nodded Mycroft.

There were so many questions suggesting themselves. Sherlock settled for a very loud, “How _could_ you?!"

“How could I’ve let you risk your life for these _people_?” Mycroft shot back, not even flinching at his tone and volume. “It was already madness to confront Moriarty on the roof. He could have shot _you_ instead of himself.”

“You let me plan all this and…”

“…and now all these plans are being set in motion, simultaneously, by some very trusted agents. Don’t you see the merits?” Mycroft walked into the room. “It will take them some time to worm themselves into the respective organisations, but then they can attack on all fronts at the same time. None of the targets will be able to warn the others. What would have taken you months or years to achieve will be done in just a few weeks or perhaps two months. And then you can go back to your _friends_.”

“It was _my_ mission!” Sherlock yelled. “You deceived me!”

“Ah, yes. Just like you deceived your dear John. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. We all do what we have to do for a greater purpose.”

“You pompous… prick!”

Mycroft grimaced. “Language, Sherlock. If you think about this for a bit, you will see that my solution is so much neater.”

Sherlock let himself drop onto the bed again. “So instead of doing my job, I’ll be your prisoner.” This could only be a bad joke… But he did know it wasn’t. Mycroft had always been overprotective and loved meddling in his life, but this was several steps too far, even for him. But he was well aware that he would not talk his brother out of it. Mycroft had planned this as meticulously as they had prepared the mission that he would now be no part of.

He was regarded with an indulgent look. Mycroft was clearly relieved that he had not physically attacked him – but really, Sherlock knew it wouldn’t have changed anything, it was nothing he would seriously consider doing, and if he was honest, he shouldn’t even have been that surprised about the developments. The fourteenth possibility he should have expected, knowing his mother hen of an older brother…

“Ah, always so dramatic. I chose your surroundings well. You will find that this house offers plenty of amenities. Not just a full fridge and all the biscuits you might wish for. There even is a pool downstairs. And a gym. You can go into the garden. There are literally hundreds of books in the library. Two televisions, if you feel so inclined. You won’t have access to the internet though, but I guess you had figured that out already. You will be provided with everything you need for doing experiments – within reasonable limits I might add. No rotten body parts or anything equally appalling. I did make sure there is a professional microscope present for you. As well as a very good violin, of course. Anything else you need, let me know and I will get it for you.” Mycroft gestured at the bed stand.

Sherlock saw a black phone he had not noticed so far and picked it up. It wasn’t a smartphone. Just a simple, old-fashioned mobile. “Let me guess: your number is the only one I can call with it.” His voice sounded flat to his own ears.

“Just so. Who else would you want to call – apart from our parents or the helpful Miss Hooper, and you’ve never been exactly keen on either, have you? Nothing has changed,” Mycroft added with a serious look. “Like the rest of the world, your other friends will still have to believe that you’re dead. We both know that this is essential. But you will be able to return to them so much sooner than you had anticipated, and of course I will make sure that your name is cleared until then so the world will know that you’re the ‘real deal’ as they say.”

Sherlock just stared at him.

Mycroft sighed. “You won’t return as a hero then, little brother, and I know I’m spoiling the adventure you had in mind, but at least you will remain alive and unharmed.”

“Fuck you, Mycroft.”

This time the sigh was even deeper. “Very well. I will go home now and come back tomorrow evening. If you need anything until then, you know how to reach me. Good night.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, feeling numb and beaten, and his brother gave him an almost apologetic look before he turned and left. It was easy for him to be generous now that he had clearly bested Sherlock.

The silence in the house was ear-deafening. Sherlock felt like kicking against the furniture. He should have been out there now. Dismantle Moriarty’s network. He had worked so hard for that. Instead he was locked away like a fragile princess in a tower by some well-meaning witch. He knew that his metaphors were a bit messed up but who cared about that? What was he going to _do_ here?! Read books until the prison guard showed up to wave his generosity of bringing treats? Swim until his arms hurt? Do some stupid weight-lifting? Probably watched by his brother, who had most definitely plastered this house with cameras?

‘ _He just wants to protect you,’_ said an inner voice that suspiciously sounded like Mycroft himself.

Sherlock snorted. He did know that. But he wasn’t a toddler that had to be kept from falling on his arse! He huffed and grabbed a fluffy pillow from the bed to throw it against the wall. His pulse decreased slowly. Yes. The idea with several agents doing what he had wanted to do on his own did make sense. But Mycroft had never mentioned that before! They had planned and schemed and then his damned brother had plotted behind his back to bring him to a house in the middle of nowhere and leave it to others to have all the fun. Damn, that had to be a fantasy come true for his control freak of an older sibling. Finally he had Sherlock where he had wanted him for ages – isolated from everybody, no chance to get his hands on illegal drugs, no dangerous cases in sight… For weeks if not months on end.

Sherlock let himself fall backwards on the very comfortable mattress and groaned. It would be horrible!

°°°

This had gone down better than expected, Mycroft thought when he leaned his aching head against the backrest of the passenger’s seat. He had not been here the entire time as he knew Sherlock to be safe in his transitional home, estimating the duration of his brother’s unconsciousness, and he had been right about it. After he had arrived in the house, he had only had to wait five minutes until Sherlock had stirred and then woken up from his long and much needed slumber. His brother had been working so hard on this project. He had put so much effort in his fake death and the plan of taking Moriarty’s vast, spiderweb-like network apart.

And Mycroft had to spoil his fun. It had been unthinkable for him to let his baby brother go undercover for such a long period of time, without proper backup and exposed to all sorts of merciless criminals. But Sherlock was great at scheming so he had not told him but exploited the detective’s expertise so his (hand-picked and very capable) agents would be able to complete their missions flawlessly. That was very important of course. If they failed and Sherlock’s friends were harmed because one of Moriarty’s people took revenge, his brother would never forgive him. Mycroft would be keeping an eye on them, even the silly Miss Hooper. After all Moriarty had used her to meet Sherlock for the very first time. Mycroft couldn’t have cared less about them of course but his not-so-sociopathic brother did so Mycroft had to make sure they would still be in one piece when Sherlock returned to his normal life. And until this was possible, he would be under Mycroft's care if he wanted or not.

‘ _And of course you have no ulterior motives to lock him up.’_

Where had this come from? This inner voice almost sounded like Sherlock… It was most disconcerting. And no, he did not. He only wanted Sherlock to be safe. It was nothing but brotherly care. Whatever else he might be feeling for his baby brother had nothing to do with it. These feelings had been locked away for a long time and would stay locked up forever and had been completely unimportant for his decision to bring Sherlock to this safe place.

He grimaced when the inner voice chuckled at that, and for the rest of his ride home, he closed his eyes and tried to think of nothing whatsoever. But the picture of a grumpy, furious Sherlock in this posh but lonely house kept popping up in his mind, and he hoped that Sherlock would be okay and eventually come to the conclusion that Mycroft had been right to do what he had done because he really didn't want Sherlock to hate him after they had been working with each other so well for several weeks.

‘ _No. You really don’t want him to hate you. You want him to_ love _you.’_

Mycroft huffed. He might want that but that would really mean demanding way too much… He would be happy if Sherlock didn’t tell him to fuck himself or call him a ‘pompous prick’ every time they met until he was allowed to go back to London again.

In all probability, not even that would happen. But Mycroft would stoically listen to Sherlock's rants and accept his glare if he only knew his little brother to be safe, because that was the most important thing in the world for Mycroft Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock woke up, it was early morning. Somehow he had managed to fall into a deep sleep after his long phase of unconsciousness and his confrontation with Mycroft, and he felt pretty refreshed.

After wiggling on the mattress in rather childish exasperation and cursing the day of Mycroft's birth, he had been pacing through the house afterwards, ripping open every door to look for an exit. Without any hope to find it, naturally. His brother might despise legwork but he had certainly made the security of Sherlock’s interim home bulletproof. There were bars on all windows. The front door was locked in such a complicated way that Sherlock wouldn’t even have gotten out if he had access to the necessary equipment. There was a door that led into the garden, just as Mycroft had said, but the small but neat piece of green was surrounded by high, thick bushes with the longest thorns Sherlock had ever seen. He had screamed a bit just for good measure and he had heard his voice echoing, but nothing had happened. There were certainly no neighbours who could be alarmed. Whose house was this? If he’d had to guess, he would have said it was the secret second or third home of some lord who owed Mycroft a huge favour. Hell, it could even belong to the Royal Family. Or it was the child’s home of Mycroft’s dear friend Harry the Equerry. It was futile to speculate. Sherlock was caught like a mouse in a trap and if he didn’t want to manhandle Mycroft into setting him free, he would have to sit this out.

He dragged himself into the squeaky clean bathroom. Hell, Mycroft had even bought Sherlock's favourite body wash. Was there anything his brother didn’t know about him? Had he really been spying on him at Baker Street all the time? It wasn’t really a question, was it… He had always known that Mycroft was a bit of a stalker when it came to him…

He treated himself to a long, hot shower, and after drying himself off with the fluffiest towel he had ever held in his hands, he used the expensive deodorant he had been provided with, also his preferred brand, just like the aftershave and toothpaste. While he was brushing his teeth, he fleetingly wondered if Mycroft had bought all these little helpers himself or if he had ordered them online or sent the ever-present Anthea to get them. But he was pretty sure that Mycroft had done it himself with great pleasure. Having Sherlock under his control like this had to be like Christmas for his brother – no, better; in the end he hated Christmas…

With a sigh, he towelled his face off and got dressed. Mycroft had even brought him some pairs of designer jeans, he noticed after glancing over the goodies in the wardrobe. For a moment he pondered about Mycroft choosing underpants for him and grinned about his brother’s imaginary embarrassment. Then he shrugged and got dressed for a lonely day. He was only twenty kilometres apart from his friends but he could have been on another planet all the same. Most people he knew thought he was dead and were certainly shattered, and a few others thought he was fighting his way through Moriarty’s criminal ranks and feared for his life. He wondered what Mycroft had told their parents? They had known that his jump off the roof had been a ruse. But did they know he was locked up in a neat house instead? He groaned when he realised that of course Mycroft had told them the truth. He had even said that Sherlock could have phoned only them (and Molly). How cunning… Molly had to know it, too, so she wouldn’t be worried about him and do something stupid like voicing her worries – there was no reason to worry about a corpse after all... She would be sad enough about not seeing him for a rather long time (although not quite as long as anticipated) to seem depressed enough. And it wasn’t as if John or Mrs Hudson had that much contact with her…

Dressed in black from head to toe, he slowly left his bedroom, thinking of his best friend and the woman that was like a mother to him comforting each other in their deep pain. Fuck… Mycroft was right. It _was_ better this way, if only for the fact that their grief-period would be so much shorter than otherwise.

But it still sucked! Grumbling, he walked into the kitchen to make himself breakfast. He wondered if he would be supposed to scrub the floors on his own, too… Well, certainly yes… Nobody was supposed to know he was here, except for Anthea and the agents who had brought him here, and they would certainly not show up again to do his housework… And he could hardly imagine Mycroft doing it… Somehow the image of his posh brother in his fancy suit, on his knees, cleaning up, made him grin for a moment before he remembered that he was royally pissed off at him. And not even the generously filled fridge and the expensive tea, which tasted heavenly, would change anything about that.

°°°

“He’s more famous than ever,” Anthea remarked when she put the mug onto his desk.

Mycroft had just come out of the last of several meetings he’d had to attend, only one of them related to his brother’s alleged death. The PM had asked if he was even able to come to work under these dire circumstances. Mycroft had felt strangely touched and said that he would cope better with this loss if he could come to work. The old man had patted his arm in an unknown gesture of consolation and called him ‘brave’. He would probably not be very amused when Sherlock came back but of course the number of people who were prone to know about the secret mission and Sherlock's true whereabouts had to be as low as possible. The Downing Street people were honestly not to be trusted with such delicate knowledge.

“Yes,” he said now, glancing at the piles of newspapers on his desk, each and every one of them screaming, _‘Suicide of fake genius’, ‘The deep fall of the false detective’_ or something of the kind. He hated them all, not just because these headlines were impious and disrespectful as well as unoriginal and offensive. These muckrakers had been so easily convinced that Sherlock was not what he pretended to be. There was obviously nothing more satisfying than downgrading the smart and the arrogant, and that was certainly not limited to the gutter press. It hurt him physically to imagine how Mrs Miller was saying to her husband at the kitchen table, ‘ _Look, I always said nobody can know such things.’_ He frankly couldn’t wait to rehabilitate his brother and see him return in triumph and glory. Well, he might have spoilt that a bit by keeping him from personally going on this mission, but it had been Sherlock's idea and Sherlock's planning, and he would make sure that everybody knew that and he would get the credit and all the apologies he deserved.

“How’s he taking it?” Anthea asked, smirking, and Mycroft wasn’t sure if he should be offended by her glee about Sherlock's imprisonment, if someone wanted to be so dramatic – which Sherlock undoubtedly was...

“He was a bit upset,” he said eventually.

“I’m sure he will understand that you only want his best,” she said softly, and he relaxed.

“It might take him a while. But I’ve ensured that he won’t get too bored.” It was wishful thinking, in all probability. Compared to what Sherlock had been planning to be doing now, sitting in a house way out in the sticks without being able to go online or talk to anybody, let alone doing actual work, had to be hell for his brother.

Anthea gave him a rightfully doubtful look. “You should make sure to visit him every day for as long as possible. Who knows – perhaps it will work wonders for your brotherly relationship.”

Had there been a suggestive undertone in these last words? Mycroft looked at her with narrowed eyes but only got a friendly smile in return. “Well. Yes. I will definitely do that. As long as I won’t be kept from going by work issues…” His meetings were not always confined to actual work hours after all.

“Oh, sir, don’t worry about that. I will handle them accordingly. And if it’s something high beyond my clearance, you can always tell Lady Smallwood or Sir Edwin that you need time to grieve for your brother.”

Cunning… That could actually work. He gave her a grateful smile, which was heartily returned. Before he could thank her, he heard a noise from Anthea’s office, and then a concerned looking Lady Smallwood stormed through the door into his.

“Oh Mycroft, I had no chance to contact you before! How _are_ you?”

Perhaps he heard Anthea sigh next to him but he might have imagined that. He put on a long-suffering expression, which was not that hard to conjure up as this woman, as competent she might be in her job, always made his toes curl with her not overly welcome soft spot for him, which he had never encouraged. “As good as can be expected under the circumstances,” he mumbled, and then he was embraced by two bony arms and engulfed by a cloud of expensive perfume, and he gasped in terror, and this time he was sure he had heard Anthea chuckle before she left him and the lady alone.

°°°

Mycroft was sitting in the car that would bring him to Sherlock when his phone signalled a text. He had tried to reach Sherlock during the day but his brother had neither picked up the phone when he had called nor had he replied to a text message. And to his utter surprise, this text was not from Sherlock. It was from John Watson…

_Mycroft… How are you? JW_

Mycroft swallowed. A text couldn’t give any insight to a person’s mind set beyond the choice of words or any silly emojis, but he could feel the pain behind this one. He should have checked on John, besides the improved surveillance to make sure that there were no more snipers to be taken out.

He knew that John had spent some hours in St. Bart’s after he had witnessed Sherlock’s alleged suicide. He had been under shock. The ex-army-captain must have seen people die in Afghanistan, even friends, but probably he had never been as close to any of them as he had been to Sherlock. They had deceived him in a rather horrible way; Mycroft had to admit that. He had not paid that much attention to what Sherlock's loss would mean to his friends. He had only worried about his brother and of course he would have made sure that his friends were not harmed. But he had not really wasted much thought on how they were feeling despite using them as an incentive for making Sherlock accept his fate.

In any way, the doctor had to be shattered, and yet he had come out of his misery to ask Mycroft how he was doing. He was Sherlock's brother, but in recent years, John had been so much more important to Sherlock than him. Had that embittered him? Oh yes. But still he felt no glee towards the doctor. The short man had been a very good friend for his brother ever since they had met. He didn’t deserve to suffer and yet, they had sentenced him to do it. And Mycroft would not risk anything. No matter how painful it was for John – he had to go on believing that Sherlock was dead. Thanks to the changed plans, he would be delivered from his grief a lot earlier than he would have had otherwise. But of course that was no comfort for the man now…

_Trying to cope, John. Stay strong. MH_

he answered, knowing it to be clumsy and maybe even offensive. John had blamed him for the mess with Moriarty after all, not knowing that it had all been planned. And still he wasn’t yelling at him now, wasn’t accusing him of being guilty of Sherlock's death.

_Yeah… I guess you are going to organise the funeral? JW_

Mycroft closed his eyes. He couldn’t wait for that horrible event. Everything had been set in motion for it of course. He sighed and replied to the doctor, and the rest of the drive, he looked out of the window, feeling low and melancholic even though he knew his brother to be very much alive.

°°°

“You could have let me do one part of the mission at least!” Sherlock hissed at him as soon as he had stepped into the house.

Of course he was right. Mycroft could have let him take care of one piece of the network while simultaneously letting some agents take over the others. But he wouldn’t have endured even that…

And Sherlock saw it in his eyes and grimaced. “I’m not a child anymore, Mycroft. You don’t have to protect me from everything.”

Oh, Mycroft was very aware that Sherlock wasn’t a child. The moment he had stopped being that, Mycroft had fallen for him in a way that had right-out shocked him. Considering Sherlock's deduction powers, it was a miracle that he had never detected that. He thought that Mycroft's concern was just brotherly. Which would be enough already, of course. “You never let me,” he said quietly. “But I couldn’t let you go abroad. Not even for one mission. And… I promised Mummy that nothing would happen to you.” He shrugged when Sherlock groaned. It was true after all.

“And you told Molly Hooper?!”

“I had to. She would have gone crazy worrying about you and that would have hardly been a good idea. Since she knew that you’re not dead, she could as well also know that.” It had been a very awkward situation. He didn’t like this woman and her silly crush on his brother. He didn’t like to admit to himself that he might be even jealous of her… It made no sense. Neither of them would ever have Sherlock…

“Great,” hissed Sherlock. “So she helped me fake my death and now she’s betraying my other friends and has betrayed me, too!”

And just perhaps that had been another reason for Mycroft to confide in her. He had known that Sherlock would be upset about her, too… “She had no influence on it,” he said calmly. “And of course she has no idea where you are, just in case you hope for her to come rescuing you.”

Sherlock snorted. “This house is a bloody fortress. Nobody can get in and out except for you and probably some of your minions.”

“Which was the whole point. So… How did you pass the time today?”

“As if you didn’t know! I bet there are cameras everywhere!” Sherlock accused.

It would have been silly to deny it. “Be that as it may; I hardly had time to spy -, I mean watch you during work.” He might have watched Sherlock grimly using the treadmill though. In the tight training clothes he had bought for him… But there were no cameras in the bathroom so he had not seen him taking a shower afterwards. Mycroft had limits. Not too many but he did.

Sherlock gave him a nasty look. “Don’t pretend this isn’t a wet dream come true for you.”

Mycroft paled but tried to hide his shock, and he felt very relieved (and tried to hide that, too) when Sherlock went on speaking.

“Me, under your control 24/7. No other people, no dangerous cases, no access to even cigarettes.”

“This is just me protecting you from your own recklessness.” He regretted this sentence immediately afterwards but of course it was too late.

“You bastard!” Sherlock's eyes were glowering and Mycroft tried hard not to take a step back.

“Now will you behave and go through the beginnings of the missions with me?”

“What?! Are you crazy?”

Mycroft sighed. “It was your plan, Sherlock. Our plan. And even though you won’t execute it, your help will still be greatly appreciated.”

Sherlock glared at him for another few seconds before he huffed. “Fine. Have it your way.”

If Mycroft had just really been allowed to have his way with him… Mycroft gave himself an imaginary slap for that thought and finally took off his coat after putting the bag he had been carrying onto the table next to the door. “I also brought dinner as I guess you haven’t cooked yet?”

Sherlock's snort was answer enough. Anthea had been right. He had to come here every day to make sure that his brother took care of himself properly. Or to do it himself, whatever worked.

‘ _And that’s the only reason, right?’_ mocked his inner voice.

No. It was not. He was in love with his baby brother, and he had been for a long time, and now Sherlock was forced to spend time with him. _Shoot me,_ he thought. He knew that nothing would ever happen between them and that these weeks or maybe months would be bittersweet, but it was more than he’d ever had with Sherlock since his brother had grown up. And he would cherish it.

“How is John?” Sherlock asked, and Mycroft bit his lip.

“Not so good, obviously.” He had also seen his brother watch the news, and Sherlock's ‘death’ had of course been the main subject. They had not shown any of Sherlock's friends apart from the very grim looking Inspector Lestrade, who had barely said a sentence before storming off with his back very straight. Mrs Hudson had been hiding in Baker Street with the doctor. They all had to be shattered. “They will get you back so much sooner this way,” he reminded Sherlock, but of course that didn’t change the fact that this result would have been the same if he had allowed Sherlock to take part in the actual mission.

But that would have meant risking his life and perhaps causing him serious injury or death for real, and Mycroft couldn’t have had that. Mummy would have had his guts for garters. And he would have never recovered from losing Sherlock.

 _His loss would break my heart_ , he thought. He would rather endure Sherlock's wrath, which was hardly new to him, and know him to be safe than indulging his penchant for bringing himself into danger and seeing him die. If Sherlock hated him for that or not didn’t really matter as he had hardly done anything else for the past decades.

For now, he would take care of him and Sherlock had to accept it, grumbling or not.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Sherlock's friends are dealing with losing him.

John winced when a mug was put onto the table next to him. He hadn’t heard Mrs Hudson coming in. And he hardly heard her when she spoke now.

“Just a bit of tea, John, hm? Perhaps a bisc-…” A sob interrupted her, and John felt just one more sting to his heart, half-numbed by a pain too large for words.

Why was it even still pounding? Why did it bother? He was done.

He didn't remember having gotten out of bed. Had stumbled into the bathroom to pee and go through the motions of his routine morning hygiene. He had even shaved. What for?

All he saw when he closed his eyes and when he opened them was Sherlock, spreading his arms, falling off the rooftop.

Fragments of their _[very]_ last conversation were echoing through John’s mind in an endless loop. How Sherlock had been trying to convince him that he was a fraud indeed.

“ _Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met... The first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”_

“ _Nobody could be that clever.”_

“ _ **You**_ _could.”_ Nobody could be smarter than Sherlock Holmes.

“ _It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”_

John had not believed it. Not a word.

But there had been nothing he could have done.

“ _Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”_ Sherlock had said.

“ _Do what?”_ He had known it. Of course he had. But how to understand the inexplicable?

“ _This phone call – it’s, err... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”_

“ _Leave a note when?”_ What a stupid, stupid question…

“ _Goodbye, John.”_

“ _No. Don’t. SHERLOCK!”_

And then – his world had turned black. His mind conjured up glimpses of his stumbling forward, eager and dreading to reach Sherlock, getting hit by the cyclist, falling. And seeing his best friend.

Dead.

He had seen friends die before. He had been at war after all.

But this…

Why had he done that? Why had he not come to him in the end instead of dealing with Moriarty on his own? They would have solved this problem together, worked something out, solved the crime of the kidnapped children and proven to the stupid police that Sherlock had not had anything to do with it. They had been two against the rest of the world ever since they had met. And Mycroft… John didn't exactly like the man and he had made huge mistakes in dealing with Moriarty, but John knew that he cared for Sherlock very much, and he was so powerful, and he would have been able to help, too. How could Sherlock's reputation have been more important to him than his life? Why the _hell_ had he done that? How _could_ he have done that?

He didn’t get it. He didn’t get anything. And the pain was tearing him apart.

He slumped in his chair. He had no idea how he was going to survive one more day without Sherlock. The pain seemed to only become worse with every hour. The day before he had even texted Sherlock's brother in a moment of clearness and had learnt some details about the funeral from him. Right now, his hand would not be able to write a few simple words.

He had heard Sherlock a couple of times the afternoon and evening before. His elegant steps. The rustling of his coat. But when he had whirled around, he had been alone.

Alone.

There wasn’t a more devastating word in all the world.

He only realised that he was crying when Mrs Hudson handed him a tissue and put a hand on his shoulder, pressing it in desperate consolation, and he embraced the fragile form of the woman who had loved Sherlock like a mother, and if there had still been anything left of it, his heart would have been shattered into pieces. But that had, after all, already happened when Sherlock had hit the ground.

_°°°_

Martha Hudson was a woman of almost eighty years. She had seen and experienced so much in her life. Had been married to a drug lord and experienced violence and abuse at his hands. She had never told anyone about it. Sherlock had deduced it, she was sure, but he had been so kind to never mention it. He had simply taken care of her murderous husband. Not just because it had been an exciting case for him, no, she was sure he had done it because he had taken an instant liking to her. And she had loved him from the start. She had never been blessed with children of her own, and considering her choice of men, that had probably rather been a blessing. But Sherlock had instantly woken her motherly feelings. She would have done anything for him, no matter how often she had admonished him and told him to clean up the kitchen and not store heads in the fridge.

And when he had needed someone to save him, she had been blind to it. He had been arrested in his flat for God’s sake and she had done nothing. Despite his deep feelings for John – and yes, she was aware that they had not been of any romantic nature and she would always think that this was a shame – and knowing how much he meant to her, he had come to neither of them or even his powerful brother for help.

Instead he had chosen the most horrible way out. Dying in such a way… A beautiful, gifted young man at the prime of his life. Something was more than fishy about it, she thought in her clearer moments, when she wasn't quite as numbed by the pain of loss. He couldn’t have done that just because of these false, stupid accusations or because the newspapers had said he was a fake. Which of course he had not been. He had known everything about everybody by just glancing at them. He had seen right through people. He had been forced to do that. This horrible man, Jim Moriarty, whose body had been found on the rooftop off which Sherlock had jumped, must have given him no other way out. And she was sure that it had been because of John. This man had kidnapped John before; he knew he was Sherlock’s weak spot. Only if John had been under threat, Sherlock would have sacrificed himself.

Of course she hadn’t said anything of the kind to the doctor. He was already suffering so much. If he had to think that he was the reason for Sherlock's death, he might follow him. And even though John was, albeit being very dear to her, not as much a part of her very heart as Sherlock had been, she would not endure losing the second one of her special boys as well.

She knew that nothing she could say or do would ease John's pain. And, irrationally, she thought, ‘Please come back and save us, Sherlock.’

°°°

Molly was nibbling at a bit of toast, while disgustedly glancing at the newspapers. They still had no other subject than the _‘terrible death of the treacherous hat-detective’_. Such idiots… As if Sherlock was anything like that… One day, hopefully soon, he would come back and prove them all wrong and make them look like the morons they were.

Molly couldn’t wait. Not just because she was missing him so much. She was also feeling very anxious and uncomfortable, especially around John and Greg and poor Mrs Hudson. It was so hard to pretend to be grieving like them when she knew that Sherlock wasn't dead.

It had been a much unexpected and quite shocking conversation she’d had with Sherlock's scary brother after Sherlock's successfully faked suicide. Well – _conversation_ … He had simply told her that Sherlock would not go on the mission he had been planning but would sit the entire matter out in a safe house while a dozen MI6 agents would do the actual work. And he had reminded her of having to play the role of the mourning friend convincingly. _‘It is of utmost importance!’_ he had snarled, regarding her with his icy blue eyes as if he thought she was an imbecile or an annoying bug.

But now that she had to deal with Sherlock’s devastated friends, she had understood why he had stressed this so much. Perhaps it would have been easier if Sherlock had really been risking his life now or if she had at least thought he would be doing so. But then – the man had a point. Worrying that Sherlock could actually die on his mission was something completely different than mourning a deceased friend. And it wasn’t as if she was very cheerful about knowing that he would be gone for probably months. But it took so much effort to not tell John that he had no actual reason to grieve, and to not let Greg know that Sherlock would be back in his full arrogant glory to solve cases for him. Not that Lestrade only missed him because of that. He liked Sherlock much more than the detective had ever understood. It was every bit as hard for him as it was for Sherlock's Baker Street family. And so it was extremely difficult to watch them suffer when she did know that Sherlock would return to them.

And to her…? Well, not like this… She would never forget the moment when she had asked him what he needed and he had said, _‘You’_. Her heart had made a jump and for a very short, very embarrassing moment, she had been tempted to jump at him and sling her arms around his long neck and kiss him and had thought he would tell her that he loved her. But of course he had only needed her for providing the corpse which he needed to fool John about his death.

She sipped at her coffee and tried not to be bitter as it didn’t change anything after all. It was what it was. If Sherlock loved anyone, it was probably John. But John wasn't gay. And Sherlock? He had recognised this woman from not her face after all! Nobody had ever told her who she had been. Well, nobody really told her anything. She hadn't dared ask Mycroft Holmes where Sherlock was. She could have kept him company! He had to be so lonely…

‘ _But he certainly doesn’t long for seeing_ _ **you**_ _!’_ reminded her that malevolent inner voice that had been mocking her for all her life, telling her that she wasn’t good or pretty enough and that she would always be alone.

Which was probably true. The last man she had dated was the psychopath who had only spent time with her to get to Sherlock…

It was very hard not to be bitter after all… She got up and put her dishes into the sink. It was time to go to work. What was Sherlock doing now? He had to be so bored and antsy and depressed.

Molly sighed. Nobody involved in Sherlock's life was to be envied right now. Everybody had a hard time, apart from Mycroft Holmes and Sherlock's parents perhaps, who all knew that he was not dead. And none of them had to deal with Sherlock's other friends and deceive them. Well, she was smart after all, even though nobody gave her credit for that. She was just the unattractive little mouse with the crush at the most stunning (and possibly even gay) man in the world.

When she was walking to the tube station, her mood was almost as dark as if Sherlock had really been dead…

°°°

He knew that he should really try to get on with his work. Pick one of the folders from the pile on his desk, give orders, talk to suspects… Instead Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade found himself sitting at his desk, his office door closed, with his face buried in his hands. His eyes were stinging with the lack of sleep and the unshed tears. He never cried. Because his father had always preached that showing feelings in general and crying in particular was unmanly and weak and whatnot? Had it really stuck until the best part of his forties? Probably he just had not learnt to do it. And now his wife called him a cold fish – nothing new here – and he was despairing at his desk while certainly looking like a granite block instead of sobbing himself to sleep somewhere really private like he would have loved to do. Not that it would have helped though…

This was… There were not even words for it.

Sherlock was dead.

It had been all over the news and he had even seen the body, and still it felt utterly unreal. Sometimes he felt like he would just have to look up and see him flaunting about the place, gesturing with his hands and ranting about the blindness of coppers, hurling out a solution for a case nobody else would have made sense of.

But he was not here and he would never be here again, and Greg had to face the truth that this was partly his fault. He had betrayed Sherlock. Had – very reluctantly but what excuse was that? – helped to manoeuvre him into a position in which he’d had to flee from the police while taking his best friend hostage. John, who had been arrested too for bashing the Chief Super, and God knew most of the police force had silently applauded him for that. The doctor was not facing any charges. Apparently, someone had convinced Lestrade’s boss that doing that was not in his best of interest. Mycroft Holmes? Probably… Certainly asked for that by Sherlock before -… Lestrade had texted John about it but had gotten no reply. He had not expected one.

Donovan had tried to comfort him. Donovan of all people! Looking sheepish and certainly not untouched by the outcome but as if she believed that Sherlock's desperate last action had proven his guilt. Greg had told her to stay out of his eyes.

Of course he could not demand that forever. He still had to work with her. Anderson, looking broken and shocked, had quit his job. Not a moment too soon as far as Greg was concerned. No, that was not fair. He had to admit that their suspicions had not come out of nowhere. But that didn’t mean they were true. It had been Moriarty’s doing, Greg was sure. All this shit about Richard Brook and Sherlock inventing an enemy. It had meddled with people’s brains. If there had been any to meddle with and not just pure resentment for a man who had been so much smarter than them, a man who had definitely had nothing to do with that kidnapping or any other crime. But Moriarty couldn’t be asked about that or held responsible anymore. He had shot himself.

And Sherlock, his dear friend, was gone. Dead. Because of the stupidity of people. And Greg’s own weakness.

And finally, slumped against his desk, Greg Lestrade started to cry.

°°°

Mycroft slowly walked up to the house. There were no neighbours and it was surrounded by thick vegetation, and of course he always made sure that nobody followed him out here. So he wasn’t focusing that on his surroundings but listening to the violin music instead. A slow, melancholic piece.

Well, that was to be expected after all. Sherlock was certainly not feeling overly cheerful. Mycroft already called it a success that his brother had answered to his text a few hours ago. Mycroft had simply asked how he was doing.

_Splendid. S_

had been the sarcastic reply. Well, even this was some progress at least.

Of course Sherlock didn’t have his old phone number anymore. His phone had not survived being thrown away on the rooftop, and Mycroft had not bothered rescuing the SIM card for later use. Sherlock would surely give his friends his new number when he was back. For now, nobody other than Mycroft was supposed to have it and he would have lied if he had denied that this gave him some rather silly satisfaction.

‘ _Do tell,’_ his nasty inner voice remarked and he rolled his eyes.

He had reached the door and let himself in. The music stopped for a moment before it set in again.

Mycroft hung up his coat and followed the sound to the living room. Sherlock didn’t look at him but went on playing, his eyes closed.

It was like a weird concert for an audience of one. Mycroft sat down on the couch and simply listened – and looked at his brother. He had not eaten anything, Mycroft deduced. Again he was dressed in black, and he felt the absurd urge to replace all his brother’s new clothes with shirts and trousers in pink or neon green. Sherlock wasn’t in mourning after all. He was just being dramatic. He had not died for real, even though the whole world (apart from just a few people) thought he was dead. And he would not die as Mycroft had ensured his safety. Sherlock could show a bit of gratitude for being cared for like this.

‘ _And you also believe in Father Christmas, yes?’_ this insane voice mocked him again and he suppressed a sigh.

He was well aware that Sherlock had not exactly asked for being locked up. Quite the opposite. Of course he loathed it. But he wouldn’t be able to deny that the agents that Mycroft had sent in his place were making quick progress.

Mycroft opened his briefcase and took out the files, and that made Sherlock stop playing. The detective tried not to look curious but he failed miserably.

Mycroft nodded at him. “Good evening, little brother.”

Sherlock huffed. “News about the mission?” he asked, audibly reluctantly.

Mycroft smiled. “Yes. And I will tell you all about it over dinner.”

“But you brought nothing!”

“No. We will cook together.”

Sherlock looked at him as if he had grown a horn on the middle of his forehead. “Fine,” he spat out a moment later. “We all know you’re obsessed with food.”

Mycroft tried not to wince. “As you are with case work,” he calmly retorted and got up. “Come. You will see – cooking can be cathartic.”

Sherlock just sighed but he followed him, grumbling under his breath, and Mycroft called it the second success of the day.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the first time that Sherlock had been feeling almost relaxed since… Since forever, or so it felt. Since that entire Moriarty debacle had started. Since he had sought out Mycroft's help at plotting against the criminal and his organisation. Which had started with an apology for giving Moriarty– or rather: trying to give him – the memory stick with the missile plans. In the end, Mycroft had gotten it back as he'd ordered someone to dive in the pool to retrieve it, but if Moriarty had taken it, it would have been gone. At this point, Sherlock had not seen a reason for apologising to Mycroft; he had done what he had thought was necessary, which basically excused any action ever taken and had not gone down well with his brother. His answer to Sherlock's text about the whereabouts of the device had been icy to say the least. But still he had immediately agreed to help Sherlock, to make plans with him for taking Moriarty’s realm of shadows apart.

The period that had followed had almost turned Sherlock into an anxious wreck. It might have not come as a surprise when Moriarty had turned him into a fake in the eyes of the public and the police which he had helped so much in the past seven years, but going through this time had been immensely demanding. It had shown him how much he could trust his friends. Yes, Lestrade had taken to acting against him in the end, but of course Sherlock had foreseen and even planned that. In the end, Lestrade was a cop. He had masters and had to serve the public, not disregard blatant evidence against someone he considered a friend. And he had arrested Sherlock very reluctantly; he had given John a warning beforehand. To give Sherlock time to run? Probably yes. He had risked his career with that and Sherlock would not forget that. Probably the DI was feeling heavily guilty now and Sherlock would have loved to deliver him from his pointless regrets. The fact of the matter was: Lestrade had not believed the accusations against Sherlock, as little as John had. Not even mentioning Mrs Hudson. And Sherlock had been forced to lie to them. Lie and lie. Hurt them immensely. Leave them behind. To save them but in order to do that, he’d had to break their silly little hearts.

And he was still torn between cursing Mycroft and his protectiveness that prevented him from doing what he had been (almost literally) dying to do ever since they had started plotting against Moriarty and silently and secretly applauding him for keeping the period in which he had to stay ‘dead’ as short as possible. Which had of course not been Mycroft's motivation. His brother couldn’t have cared less how long it would take until Sherlock could return to his friends and his work. All he wanted was to keep Sherlock under control. And yes – safe. And he was doing a good job with this mission; there was no denying that. Those reports, which he had let Sherlock read after dinner as promised, were very insightful and very encouraging. The men and women Mycroft had picked seemed to know what they were doing.

He had indeed forced Sherlock to cut potatoes and stupid little carrots. Sherlock had sarcastically asked him if he wasn't afraid that Sherlock could accidentally cut off a finger as he was such a helpless damsel in distress – or ram the small but sharp knife between Mycroft's flesh-covered ribs but Mycroft had merely rolled his eyes at that and told him to cut the vegetables into equal pieces.

It had even been quite… yes, cathartic, just as Mycroft had said. It was a stupid job but it had calmed him down even more than playing his violin or running on the treadmill for a full hour this morning.

He had munched fried fish and roasted potatoes and tasty little carrot-pieces with surprisingly good appetite, and Mycroft had been visibly pleased by that. Sherlock couldn’t remember when he had last shared a meal with Mycroft in recent years. Probably during the awful Christmas dinners with the extended – and very eccentric – family, but he had not been sitting close to his brother then – Mummy always made sure that they were sitting far apart from each other so their constant bickering wouldn’t spoil the mood. In any way Mycroft had eaten with the expected perfect manners, and Sherlock had noticed fleetingly that his jibe about Mycroft's fleshy midst had been rather uncalled for. His brother was slim these days and had been slim and in shape ever since he'd lost this teenage-boy-fat a long time ago.

He had not paid any heed to Mycroft when he had arrived, focusing on his play. But he had felt Mycroft's concerned – and undoubtedly secretly affectionate – looks at him and it had been kind of nice to play for an appreciative audience. It had also been nice to cook with him – or cut silly vegetables and watch Mycroft doing the actual cooking. And now they were sitting together with a glass of wine each, going through the results of the beginning of the missions, and wasn’t it cozy?

Could he even be happy that Mycroft was here? Was he already developing Stockholm’s Syndrome? Well, he did know himself that this was a bit exaggerated. Mycroft _was_ kind of holding him hostage but just for – in his eyes – Sherlock's own good. It was still infuriating and annoying though.

“You see, little brother – everything’s going according to plan,” Mycroft said now, looking and sounding smug.

“Not really,” Sherlock flared. “ _I_ should have been out there!”

A flicker of hurt ghosted over Mycroft's face, and for some reason, Sherlock felt a tad ashamed of his little outburst. Then Mycroft sighed. “Yes. I know that’s what you wanted.” He got up. “These are copies as you’ve obviously figured out. Keep them and read them and if you have any suggestions or advice, call me. Or text me, if you prefer. Believe it or not – I do cherish your expertise and ideas. I just want you…” He broke off, making a gesture that said that it was futile to explain it to him – again.

He proceeded to get up, certainly in order to leave, and suddenly Sherlock didn’t want him to. What would he do all evening when he was alone again? Brooding? Sulking? Boring himself to death?

“You can't leave,” he stammered.

Mycroft, holding his briefcase already, turned to him. “Sorry?” He sounded utterly surprised.

“I mean – you can't leave me with all the dishes and stuff!”

Mycroft gave him a disbelieving but strangely fond look. “There is a dishwasher in the kitchen, Sherlock. I know using it is beneath you, but I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Sherlock nodded and looked down at his feet. “Okay,” he mumbled, sounding awfully needy and meek to his own ears.

“Or…,” Mycroft said and put the leather case down again, “we could take care of the dishes together and talk about your funeral.”

“My -… Oh…” He had not even wasted a thought on it. “I suppose you’ve arranged it all already?”

“Certainly. But you can still have a say in what music will be played and if you want someone to make a speech, that sort of thing.”

“No. No speeches,” Sherlock said, horrified.

Mycroft smiled – a genuine, kind smile. “See. We will have to discuss that. Do you want me to film it?”

Sherlock thought that he would like that indeed. “Discreetly,” he demanded.

“Obviously. Guess it will be on YouTube anyway.”

“Which won't help as I have no access to the internet.” Damn… That had sounded resentful again. As if he was so keen on being online if he couldn’t work on any cases anyway…

Mycroft gave him a rather strange look before he smiled again. “That’s true. But you will get your own clip; I’ll show it to you on my laptop.”

“Can I have one, too?” Sherlock surprised himself. “I mean, for writing stuff down and… playing solitaire or whatever.”

Mycroft seemed even pleased by his plea. “Consider it arranged for tomorrow. I… I really don't want to punish you with this, Sherlock. I really -…”

“…only want my best, yes. I know. You always had a strange way to show that.”

Mycroft bit his lip and nodded. “It must appear to you like that, yes. Come. Let’s do some washing up, little brother.”

And somehow Sherlock caught himself looking forward to that. Not to taking care of the stupid dishes and cutlery. But to spend some more time with his brother, doing something completely banal while talking about his fake funeral.

Weird… Such a short time on his own and he was already getting mental… But somehow right now, it didn’t feel that bad.

°°°

Mycroft was walking through the silent corridors of his ridiculously big house, feeling strangely wired.

Well, it wasn’t that strange after all. Sherlock had wanted to spend more time with him. Well, of course just because he would have been alone again otherwise as none of his dear friends happened to be around. Still… It had been really nice to do the cooking together, Sherlock's weight-jibe aside – and Mycroft might be mistaken but he thought he had noticed Sherlock regard him and overthink his judgement. The conversation at the dinner table had been rather civilised and discussing the case had also been fine for the most part – despite Sherlock being grumpy about his exclusion from the actual action. And then, when Sherlock had become resentful again and Mycroft had thought it would be better to leave him alone, Sherlock had not wanted to let him go. For obvious reasons, yes, but if he had found Mycroft's company that awful, he would have still not reacted like this.

‘ _And tomorrow he will take off his pants for you or what?’_

Mycroft, who had reached his living room, sighed and poured himself a whiskey. Wasn’t there a way to silence that damned inner voice? Of course Sherlock would never do anything like that. And Mycroft wouldn’t even want that, his desires for his brother were just… theoretical and a bit of a silly, romantic crush without consequences.

He grimly downed the expensive whiskey when the voice in his head laughed heartily at that.

°°°

What a stupid mistake this had been… Sherlock brushed his teeth with much more force than necessary, grimly watching the white toothpaste mixed with blood when he had spat out.

Why had he turned on the telly? He had not watched the news; the speculations about his death and alleged lies didn’t bother him in the slightest; that had been his plan after all.

No, he had made the mistake of watching an old spy film… Full of action and bravery and a man going through hell to fight himself out of captivity, shooting some of his fiends and knocking down others.

And here he was, sitting in a comfortable house, eating fine food and sleeping on the most comfortable bed he had ever had the pleasure of cuddling up on. This was all wrong! He should be out there and _do_ something; he was Sherlock Bloody Holmes for God’s sake.

He stormed out of the bathroom with clenched teeth and irrationally ran to the front door and rattled at the doorknob. “Let me out, Mycroft! I demand it! I swear I won’t get myself killed if that’s so important to you but let me out already!” he yelled, his low voice echoing through the empty house.

In another house in North London, Mycroft Holmes looked at his phone and sighed. And his heart broke when he watched his brother slump back through the corridor with hanging shoulders, looking beaten and depressed.

Mycroft had always despised legwork but he knew how fond (or rather obsessed) Sherlock was of it. For him, being confined to this house had to be the worst possible punishment but there was nothing to be done about it. Mycroft just wouldn’t have it.

Sherlock’s words echoed through his mind: _‘I won’t get myself killed if that’s so important to you’_. _Nothing_ was more important to him. And if Sherlock, despite their rather pleasant evening together, hated him for it in the end, then so be it.

Neither of the Holmes brothers fell asleep easily that night.


	5. Chapter 5

Snuggled into his coat even though it was not exactly cold but a bit windy, Sherlock was sitting in a garden chair, typing away on the top-notch laptop that had been brought this morning. Mycroft had taken care of it instantly but he had not come himself, well, obviously not, he had to work. An agent with such unidentifiable looks that not even Sherlock would have been able to describe him afterwards had dropped by and handed the brand new computer over without saying a single word. Some people took their spy-job a bit too seriously, Sherlock had thought a little sourly. Not that he was that keen on talking to Mycroft's minions but it had been a bit impolite…

Of course Sherlock still had no access to the internet, but now that he was sitting in the small and secluded garden, he realised that he didn't really miss it. All the bad news about the state of the world, the stupid gossip, sport results, weather forecasts that were always wrong… No loss at all.

He did miss London though. He missed his banters with John about their domestic chores and body parts in the fridge and who had to go buy groceries and why it wasn’t a good idea to be nasty to clients with boring cases. He missed going to Bart’s and experimenting the morning away. He missed Mrs Hudson’s _‘Uh-huh!’_ and Lestrade scratching his head when he didn’t understand what Sherlock was telling him. He missed his life, bottom line.

When he had woken up, rather late, he had recalled his embarrassing action at the door. Stupid… As if this would make his brother let him go. Mycroft _wouldn’t_ let him go before the mission was completed, period, no matter what Sherlock did. Even if he offered him lots of money (totally theoretically spoken – Mycroft was way richer than he would ever be), he would just glare at Sherlock and stubbornly shake his head. Mycroft was incorruptible. The decency in person. Well, when he said decent… Of course his brother was a shadowy figure in his job, and Sherlock estimated that he’d let at least a hundred people get killed in order to protect Queen and country in his long career as a string puller, manipulator and human computer. Probably more. But this job-related cruelty aside, his brother was a kitten. Especially when it came to him. Which of course was exactly why he was here now…

He was writing a letter. To John. And he would write some to Mrs Hudson and Graham Lestrade as well. To explain. To say sorry. He couldn’t send them, obviously, but he would let them read them when he was back. They would be a bit upset about having been deceived, certainly, but in the end they would understand, wouldn’t they?

It was hard. Hard to think of how he had lied to John, on the roof. Telling him that he was, after all, a fraud. Had John eventually believed him? Sherlock had done that to make it easier for his friend to let him go but now that appeared so stupid to him. Suddenly it was of utmost importance that John still believed in him. And what he’d had to do to John – making him watch him jump and allegedly die. His fingers stilling on the keyboard, he realised that there were tears in his eyes.

°°°

It was not the place he wanted to be at now. Nor did he have time to waste on this. He should be sitting at his desk, overseeing the mission that would allow his brother to come back safe and without having to fear any more trouble from Moriarty’s people and the law. But first of all, Anthea was on that now, and in such regards, she was probably every bit – if not more – capable of being in charge as he was. And naturally, he was reachable via phone as he always was, in case of an emergency. And… his brother had _cried_. There had not been any loud sobs and he had tried to suppress the tears but Mycroft had not missed them. And he had been crying while writing a letter to his dear John. Not a letter he hoped to be able to smuggle out of what he saw as his prison, no, a letter that explained all his actions of the past days. An apology for deceiving John about his death, basically, because he had obviously decided that it would be easier to explain it in written form instead of stammered words.

Mycroft had not read every word his brother had typed – and it said a lot about Sherlock’s state of mind (or rather heart?) that he didn’t seem to suspect that everything he did with his new laptop was monitored word for word. But he had read enough to be sure that Sherlock wasn’t, after all, in love with John, which was more of a relief than it should have been. He had feared that from the start –Sherlock and John becoming lovers. And he had kidnapped John and tried to get him to spy on Sherlock because he had hoped – albeit not really believed – that John would agree and that Sherlock would find out and send him away. It had not worked – which had not surprised but annoyed him – and the rest was, as they said, history. Sherlock and John had become inseparable until Sherlock had seen no choice but to leave England and to leave John in the dark about the true circumstances.

In any way, Sherlock had not written a love confession or anything that could be considered to possibly lead to such unwelcome developments. He had used it to apologise for causing John pain, and he obviously feared that John could seriously believe that he was a fake. At least Mycroft had deduced that he had been crying because of that fear even though he had not addressed it directly in his heart-wrenching letter.

And this was the reason for Mycroft to climb the stairs of 221B Baker Street. He had decided to use his key instead of the doorbell. The house was uncharacteristically silent. No loud voices from above, no clattering of dishes from Mrs Hudson’s flat, no client running down the stairs, sobbing because Sherlock had been nasty to them. It weirdly felt like being in a ghost house, and Mycroft Holmes of course did not even believe in such superstitious nonsense.

They were both there, in the untidy living room – John sitting in his armchair, looking absolutely worse for wear. His hair was neat and he had shaved, but there were thick bags under his red-rimmed eyes and he had obviously not eaten a lot if anything at all since he had seen Sherlock fall.

And Mrs Hudson, just pouring tea for him, looking pale and devastated and as if she was never going to smile again.

A seriously pitiful sight, both of them.

Mycroft had chosen a black suit with a black-and-white pocket square. He wasn’t really mourning of course but somehow, it was very easy to look sour when he was in this flat. Sherlock's and John’s realm, with bitchy Mrs Hudson being the icing on the ghastly cake. A place where Mycroft had never been welcome. Where he had been mocked and rejected by Sherlock whenever he had shown up to check on him, usually under the pretence of needing Sherlock's help on a case for the government. In fact, it had basically been just to meet his little brother. Pathetic, really, but these had been the facts of their relationship for a very long time – Mycroft pursuing to reinstate a connection of sorts without any idea or talent to actually reach his goal, and Sherlock avoiding it with grim determination.

And now Sherlock was gone and Mycroft was here – to be able to convince his suffering little brother that his best friend still believed in him as this was so important to him. And because Mycroft couldn’t endure seeing him cry. He had never been able to.

Sherlock had always been a very sensitive child. He had loved his Mummy and admired his Father and more than anything he had adored his big brother. And vice versa. Mycroft had been an only child for seven years and when Mummy had told him that he was about to get a sibling, he had not been enthusiastic about that at all. But as soon as he had laid eyes on his baby brother with those curious, crystal clear eyes and pouty mouth, he had been lost. And he had, with all the seriousness of his seven years, made a vow to himself to protect him and teach him everything he knew. And Sherlock had loved him back with an intensity that nobody who knew them now would believe. Mycroft had made sure that his brother always had everything he needed, and he had been there when Sherlock had managed to hurt himself, which had happened quite often, wild child that he had been. And sometimes he had cried silently when Mycroft had been tending to his wounds, and it had always broken Mycroft's heart.

Probably the last time he had seen him cry was when Redbeard had gone missing. And he remembered as if it had been yesterday how he and the little girl that had been their sister had been watching Sherlock weep – Mycroft with deep concern and worry – and Eurus with curious, scrutinising glee…

“Mycroft,” John said now, ripping Mycroft out of his thoughts, and his voice sounded hoarse and as if he had not used it a lot over the past few days.

“Doctor Watson. Mrs Hudson. I… I just wanted to see how you are coping.”

They stared at him as if he was the frogman or something equally amazing. And then John crawled out of his chair and a moment later a thoroughly embarrassed Mycroft had an armful of sobbing ex-army-captain.

°°°

When Mycroft stepped into the living room, Sherlock saw at once that his brother had witnessed his foray into sentimentality a few hours ago.

God. It was embarrassing. Mycroft had seen him cry… And then…

“You met John,” he said, unable to keep the amazement out of his voice.

Mycroft put the bag he had brought – no cooking today, obviously – onto the table. “I did.”

“How is he?” Sherlock whispered, not caring that he sounded needy and meek.

“He is suffering.” Mycroft sat down on the couch. “As expected. He is… missing you. And he – and your landlady as I might add – still admires the ground you’re walking on.”

Suddenly Sherlock’s throat was tight with gratitude. He knew that Mycroft couldn’t really stand John, let alone Mrs Hudson. He would have met them at the funeral, which would take place in two days, anyway, and he was obviously very busy, and still he had taken the time to visit Sherlock's friends to be able to assure him that they didn’t believe what Anderson and Donovan had found so easy to take for granted.

He found that he was unable to express what he was feeling now, but a look into Mycroft's face told him that this was not necessary. Of course not. Who else but Mycroft had taught him to do deductions after all?

Mycroft gave him a smile and there was an expression of absolute fondness in his eyes when he said, “Come, let’s eat, little brother. I brought something from Angelo’s. I assume it will be to your liking.”

Sherlock was very close to saying something completely embarrassing, something he suddenly felt with all his heart, and it caught him off guard and Mycroft gaped at him as he deduced it with ease once more, and then the moment was over, and Sherlock simply nodded and got up. But he knew he would never forget how he had been feeling for Mycroft in this moment – how he had loved his big brother so purely and intensely, no matter that he was an overprotective, smug tosser who had locked him up against his will and was probably spying on him all the time. And Mycroft had seen it, and sentimental as he was beneath all his preaching about caring not being an advantage, he would certainly remember it, too, even though he would of course never mention it.


	6. Chapter 6

It was hard to see this casket. Of course Mycroft was well aware that it wasn’t Sherlock who was waiting to be burnt in there. But it was so easy to imagine that he was…

God… They had been so reckless in their planning, hadn’t they? They had been so sure that they could foresee Moriarty’s plan but what if the Napoleon of crime had used this gun against Sherlock instead of himself? Then Mycroft could be looking at Sherlock's corpse now, lying stiff in the thankfully closed coffin… The thought made him feel nauseous.

“Mr Holmes.”

He turned around to face a broken man with grey hair. He was the first one to arrive. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. Thanks for coming.”

“I…” The attractive man seemed to be searching for words. “My deepest condolences.” The words came out as a whisper.

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you.”

Lestrade looked around with his pained eyes. “Your parents…?”

“Oh, they couldn’t come. They just couldn’t. It would be too hard for them. Father is over eighty and had a heart attack last year.” A blatant lie. The elder Holmes were in the best of health, and of course they should have been here to make it more believable. But Mycroft had forbidden it. He had a soft spot for his parents but they would have never been able to believably pull off the mourning parents of a young man, having died at his own hands due to desperation. They were no idiots, of course, but wherever he and Sherlock had gotten their manipulation skills from, it wasn’t their parents…

Lestrade swallowed hard. “I’m… I’m so sorry…”

Mycroft gave him a pointed look. “I do hope your Sergeant Donovan and her forensics paramour will not show up?”

“God, no. Well, Anderson did want to. He is feeling… very bad.”

“Oh is he?” Mycroft couldn’t keep the coldness and sarcasm from his voice. Of course he and Sherlock had planned this. Well, naturally, it had been Moriarty’s plan to destroy Sherlock's reputation and force him to commit suicide but they had gone along with it and it hadn’t come as a surprise at all. But it was still impossible for him to understand how people who had been working with Sherlock for years could seriously believe this crap.

Greg Lestrade looked even unhappier than before, if that was possible, and Mycroft did feel sorry about his strident tone. It was not this man’s fault. He had always believed in Sherlock. Just like John and Mrs Hudson, who were now coming into the crematorium, Mrs Hudson holding onto the doctor’s arm.

It would all be filmed. The cameras had been put in place half an hour ago. Sherlock would see all the people grieve for him. What would that do to him, Mr _High-Functioning-Sociopath_ with the soft heart when it came to some of these people? Hopefully it would not drag him down too much. Mycroft hated to see him suffer.

“Mycroft,” John said, tears glistening in his blue eyes, and if he wanted it or not, Mycroft was hugged fiercely by Sherlock's best friend.

John had put on his uniform. Was he feeling safer in it? It was too big for him now. He had lost even more weight since Mycroft had last seen him.

And Mrs Hudson looked like a fragile crow in her black dress, her face a mask of grief. And Mycroft felt very uncomfortable among these people who thought they had to say goodbye to Sherlock forever, while he was holding the secret of his true whereabouts.

And then Molly Hooper came in and their eyes met, and he was irritated by how sad she looked. But then he realised that she probably thought the same as he had – it could have been Sherlock for real. It was a relief, actually, to see her in this state. It meant she wouldn’t give away their secret accidentally by looking too calm for the occasion.

The celebrant was coming now – an elderly man with white hair, a nose that was even bigger than Mycroft's and a soft look in his watery eyes. He would say a few words about Sherlock. There would be no speeches, just as Sherlock had requested.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. There would be one…

°°°

It had not been a spontaneous decision. While they had been preparing dinner the other day, Sherlock had told him, very reluctantly, that it was okay if Mycroft said a few words. Mycroft had remarked that it would be odd if he as his closest present relative didn’t say anything. Sherlock had sarcastically asked him if he planned to shed a tear for him. Mycroft had told him kindly that he wasn’t as good as faking emotions as certain other people, which had made Sherlock snort. It was true though. Sherlock was so brilliant at manipulating people into what he wanted them to do for him and he could pretend having all kinds of emotions like nobody else Mycroft knew.

But when he looked into the faces of Sherlock's friends and some relatives (who really did believe that Sherlock was dead; Mycroft had told his parents to tell everybody that they didn’t want to see anybody), he felt very weird. Touched in a way he had not expected. And very angry…

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, noticing how flat his voice was sounding. It was strange – when Sherlock was angry, he got very loud. When Mycroft felt like this, his voice was dangerously quiet. Well, they would understand him. He was speaking into a microphone.

“My brother, Sherlock. So much has been said about him in his way-too-short life.” He glanced at his audience – only about two dozen people. Reporters were not welcome here. John Watson’s face was stoic but the pain in his eyes was impossible to miss. Mrs Hudson was letting her tears fall freely. Molly Hooper was staring at Mycroft, pale as a ghost and looking every bit as lost as the others. And Greg Lestrade had buried his face in his hands.

“He was the famous detective. Admired for a while, feared by the criminal classes, envied by the police. He solved countless cases, giving justice to those who wouldn’t have found any otherwise.” He saw Lestrade looking up – and nodding. “He was honoured for his services – until he fell from grace because the public turned against him, even the police force turned against him, believing the words of a criminal rather than Sherlock's.”

“Bastards,” he heard Mrs Hudson mutter and he could barely suppress a grin. Perhaps there was something to this old lady after all.

“They claimed that he was a kidnapper, inventing crimes to be able to solve them and get all the attention. Only that he never craved that. He didn't do it for fame. Inspector Lestrade will agree with me that my brother never wanted to get the credit for the cases he solved.” He saw the policeman nod vehemently and gave him a brief smile. “Sherlock was all about solving puzzles as his enormous brain needed to be occupied at all times. And you might agree that it is rather improbable that he invented these puzzles himself then.”

This time he heard John mumble something that sounded suspiciously like _‘those fucking arseholes’_. Well, maybe there was something to the doctor, too…

“He got into a downward spiral after that,” Mycroft said, his voice graven now. “He fled from getting arrested for something he had not done, taking his best friend hostage.” It was hard not to laugh at that as of course he knew that the doctor had gone along with that all too willingly in his fierce wish to protect Sherlock. John surprised him with a hearty sob – obviously he didn't find that memory funny at all in retrospect. Well, of course not… He thought Sherlock was dead for real after all... “He confronted the man who was responsible for all this trouble. We will never truly know what happened on that roof but it ended with both men dying. The criminal and the man whose life goal was to solve all crimes.” That was rather pretentious and not entirely true. Sherlock was not an angel or some kind of Robin Hood who fought for the ones who had been wronged. He basically just lived for the thrill of the chase. But it sounded good… He saw tears everywhere now, even in Molly Hooper’s eyes. “He called his dear friend John Watson,” this was probably the first time that he had spoken these words without sarcasm, “and told him that he was, in fact, a fraud.”

“He’s not!” John burst out and Mrs Hudson patted his arm.

Mycroft nodded seriously. “No, John. Of course he’s not. He said that so your grief would not be so strong.”

John huffed out a laugh. “Didn’t work.” He wiped over his snotty face.

“No. I guess it didn’t. But this was Sherlock. He cared for his friends. Most people saw him as an arrogant, aloof man without feelings but those who truly knew him are well aware how wrong this is. When the people who only know him from what they read in the media, good or bad, think of Sherlock they see the intimidatingly smart detective, so much cleverer than they are but also cold and all brain but no heart. His friends know how loyal and caring he really is. Was.” Damn… But it was probably not that unusual to mess this up a bit. It didn't do to be that eloquent as the mourning brother that he was supposed to be. “When I think of Sherlock, I see my little brother, who meant the world to me.” He stopped when he heard a loud sob from the very back of the room.

Greg Lestrade got up and sighed. “Philip. Come here.”

And Mycroft watched Philip Anderson, former head of the forensic team, stumble forward on shaky legs, sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry, Mr Holmes! I know you’re right! He did nothing wrong! I wish so much that I could turn back time and make him alive again!”

God, what a scene. “Well, you can’t,” Mycroft retorted coldly, making the man weep even louder. “You made him kill himself and now you’ll have to live with the consequences.”

“Yes, that’s right.” The door had been pushed open and another unexpected figure entered the crematorium. “All those idiots who think they knew him. _I_ knew him and I know that he’s the most decent man in the world. He saved my life.”

Mycroft gaped at the petite woman, dressed in black from head to toe, wearing her trademark red lipstick. This was not possible! She was _dead_! He groaned when he realised the irony in that… And his own words echoed through his mind, his answer to John asking if he was sure that she had really been decapitated: _“It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me, and I don’t think he was on hand, do you?’_ Well, it seemed as if he had been, after all… And Mycroft couldn’t help but feel betrayed by Sherlock, who had obviously just pretended to despise her and hand her over to him, no matter what that might mean for her, and he was, hands down, irrationally jealous. And quite a bit angry.

“You should be ashamed, every one of you who believed in these lies!” Irene Adler thundered dramatically, as if for a huge audience. “I know that Sherlock was the best man of all. Rest in peace, my Sherlock.” And with this she broke down, bursting into tears, and Mycroft exchanged an exasperated look with the only one in the room who’d had the displeasure of meeting her before, and John was shaking his head in consternation, but he didn’t look exactly surprised.

Mycroft stepped away from the podium, sparing the assembled people the touching stories about Sherlock as a child he had planned to tell them. He only wanted to get it over with now and have the damned corpse that wasn’t his brother burnt to a crisp so he could go and yell at the very much alive Sherlock.

°°°

Sherlock was aware that something had gone wrong when he heard the key in the door. Being rammed into the door, to be precise. One of the many alarms went off and he heard Mycroft curse in a way that would have reddened their father’s cheeks before the alarm stopped howling and Mycroft stomped through the corridor like an entire herd of pissed-off gnus.

Sherlock tried to deduce what might have upset his usually so nonchalant brother like this during his fake funeral. Someone had made a speech after all, spilling secrets? No. It was worse. Their secret had not been uncovered. It wasn’t _that_ bad. Someone Mycroft had not expected had shown up? Yes, that sounded about right. And Sherlock grimaced when he realised that it could have only been…

“Irene Adler was at your funeral, surprise!” Mycroft all but screeched when he burst into the room. He didn’t look upset. He looked royally pissed off.

Sherlock didn’t get it. Yes, well, he had sneaked out of the country with false papers his brother didn't know about and had saved a blackmailing, whip-swinging prostitute from losing her head. So what? Her case had been closed, all her secrets had been used for the sake of the kingdom. What was it to Mycroft that Sherlock had made sure that she kept her head and could flee to a safe country? And why the hell had she come back now?! If videos of the funeral really ended up on the internet, as nowadays there was no official news canal needed for that anymore, she would be exposed to all her enemies, who then would know for sure that she wasn’t dead. How could she have risked that?! Damn sentiment! But no. Sherlock shook his head over himself. It hadn’t been sentiment. It had been her flair for the dramatic… “Did she behave as if she was my widow?” he dryly asked Mycroft, who looked as if he was close to biting into the table top.

“Yes, in fact she did!”

Sherlock felt more and more confused about his brother’s wrath. “Well, if it makes her happy…”

“Happy, yes, you made her happy after all she did to this country as it seems.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I beg your pardon? Since when is it a crime to be saved from being killed by a terrorist cell?”

“Since never,” mumbled Mycroft, suddenly looking down on his feet, his shoulders sagging.

“Yes, she’s a handful but it isn’t as if she had continued to blackmail the Queen. You chose to let her go instead of locking her up, didn't you?”

“I did.” Mycroft sounded even meeker now, and Sherlock didn't get it.

And he also didn't get why he found his brother’s rage rather… flattering? He really was an attention seeker… And since nobody else was around… That didn't sound about right, either, but he wasn’t in the mood to question his reactions any further. “I saved her and made sure she left that country in one scrawny piece, that was all,” he said, not knowing why he found it necessary to explain himself. Of course Irene would have loved to pay her debt in a rather delicate way but he had just pushed her into the car that would bring her to the airport. He might have been fascinated by her game and chutzpah, but he had certainly not wanted to fuck her...

Mycroft scrutinised him and seemed to relax. “I guess she’s gone again now,” he slowly said. “Probably she won’t risk sinking onto your grave when it’s finished, sobbing her heart out.”

Sherlock shook his head. “She better not.” And she would never be able to send him her annoying texts again, would she? And nobody else could do that, either. He had destroyed his phone… “Did you get my SIM card? From my phone?”

Mycroft's eyes narrowed dangerously. “Why ever would that concern you?”

“Well, because all my contacts were saved on it. And nobody can call me anymore when this is over.”

“I’m sure you’ve memorised all the numbers anyway. And you will get a new phone with a new number,” Mycroft all but hissed.

Sherlock shrugged. “Yeah. I guess I can dig them all up again.” It really didn't matter. “Will you show me now? The film?”

Mycroft stared at him for a long moment before he nodded. “Yes. It was sent to my phone on my way here. It will be… pretty depressing.”

“It’s my funeral, brother, I don’t expect anything else.” Sherlock suddenly grinned. “Perhaps I will have at least a good laugh at Irene’s performance. Such a stupid thing to do...”

Mycroft grinned back and now he definitely looked relieved. “She’s a woman, Sherlock. They are irrational and driven by sentiment even more than your male friends.”

“Don’t let Anthea and Mrs Hudson hear that.”

“Better not. Well, let’s sit down then.”

And the two Holmes men took place on the couch then and Sherlock got to see his own funeral on the display of Mycroft's phone. It was a small screen, naturally, but it all came across. The grief of his friends, which made Sherlock's heart wrench, and the surprise guest Anderson, who made him snort – and Mycroft's speech, and Sherlock was completely taken aback at it, at the sentiment his brother had expressed. And he looked at him and Mycroft avoided his gaze, his cheeks flushing, and despite the row they’d just had, Sherlock felt this feeling again – this strong, pure love for the man next to him.

And when they got to Irene’s embarrassing performance, they chuckled together, and Sherlock realised that despite the guilty feelings of making his friends suffer like this, he was feeling… happy.


	7. Chapter 7

Something had changed. Something… essential.

Had it been caused by watching his own funeral? Or was it just the fact that Sherlock had finally come down from this massive adrenaline rush that had kept him running for so long? Or was it just… Mycroft?

In any way Sherlock learnt to enjoy the little things. Feeling calm. And safe. A part of him still wanted to be out there, and when he and Mycroft were discussing the progress of the agents who were worming their ways into the various criminal organisations, he did feel depressed and restless sometimes. But this feeling wasn’t that overwhelming anymore. And when he was alone, which he was for the most part of the day after all, he found peace in reading, writing his letters to Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, sitting in the garden, doing nothing at all. He slept a lot. And he spoke to his parents. Mycroft had made sure that he could reach them, too, obviously surprised by his wish to reach out to them after avoiding them like the plague over the past, well, decades. And he could be sure that Sherlock wouldn’t use that to get away. It would have been a bit embarrassing to whine about being locked up by big brother. And of course the elder Holmes were happy that Sherlock was not out there, doing field work. They appreciated knowing him under Mycroft's care. Even if he had complained about that, they would have done nothing about it, even if they could have. They would rather chide him for being ungrateful. Mycroft was holding all the cards in this matter anyway.

And often, he used his phone to text with his brother. Not just about the mission. Just banal exchanges about dinner and a book Sherlock liked to read. And sometimes, he just texted Mycroft to hear how he was doing. Probably Mycroft had dropped his phone in utter surprise when Sherlock had done this for the first time. And of course Sherlock had surprised himself with it as well. He was still cross with Mycroft after all! No. Actually he wasn’t. Being cross about getting taken out of his own game had been replaced by… By something he couldn’t grasp, and he didn't even try.

But he was looking forward to Mycroft's daily visits. And he always came. Every single day. Sometimes he was very late and looked completely exhausted and as if he belonged in bed rather than driving all the way out here to keep him company. Because that’s what Mycroft did. They could have discussed the mission via phone. Well, that would have worked better if Mycroft had given him access to the internet. But still – his brother wouldn’t have had to come day after day. But he did and he always seemed happy to see him.

They went through the reports of the mission and discussed strategies. They had dinner. And they talked about various topics. Sherlock was thinking about getting a dog. He had always liked them. He mentioned Redbeard, the beloved Irish setter of his youth, and Mycroft smiled wryly and nodded, and said that a dog required time and lots of care, and Sherlock couldn’t blame him for doubting that he was willing to provide both. John would like a dog, too. And Mrs Hudson would allow it. They would be so happy to have him back that they would give him basically anything he wanted. If John didn't kill him first… This was the really dark side of everything that was happening. The knowledge of how he was hurting the people who loved him. He had done it for their own good. And he hoped they would understand and forgive him.

°°°

Mycroft Holmes had never felt this happy before. He was well aware that this state wouldn’t last. The moment Sherlock returned to Baker Street, his friends and his life as the great consulting detective, it would end as Sherlock would have a lot better things to do than wasting his time with his boring big brother. But until then, Mycroft would allow himself to enjoy a closeness he hadn’t had with his brother since Sherlock had been a little child.

He forced himself to focus on their mission of course. A mission that could not fail under any circumstances. And he constantly reminded himself that their highly (and highly unexpectedly) improved relationship was entirely brotherly, at least from Sherlock's side, and Mycroft fought down all the romantic longings that spending so much time with his baby brother was causing him to develop. Sherlock didn't feel for him like this, and Mycroft had never even dreamt of being with him in this way. Having him back as a brother was already the greatest gift he had ever wished for.

And still… Sometimes… Sometimes, usually before he fell asleep in his lonely, king size bed, he almost thought that Sherlock could get there one day. Love him in a way that had nothing to do with being brothers. But of course he called himself crazy every time he allowed his thoughts to stray onto those dangerous paths and beat these silly hints of hope down. Only sometimes he even dreamt about being allowed to hold Sherlock, to spoil him, kiss him and be one with him, and instead of troubling him when he woke up, these dreams gave him a strange sort of comfort.

°°°

Life went on for Sherlock's friends. A life that would never be the same again, they thought.

Greg buried himself in his work. Took as many cases as possible. Sometimes, when he was walking around a corpse, trying to figure out what exactly had happened, he could almost feel Sherlock's presence behind him. Saw him smile smugly and then open his mouth to deliver his solution. But he wasn’t there and often enough, Lestrade had to give up on trying to solve the case. He was not Sherlock. He was just your everyday copper with the normal brain, overworked and melancholic, smoking too much and feeling Sherlock's death weighing heavily on his shoulders. Sometimes he felt Donovan’s stare on him but she never raised the subject of Sherlock's suicide again. Probably because she knew he would lose it if she did. It was hard not to hate her. And Anderson? He kept digging up complicated cases from newspapers throughout Europe, claiming that only Sherlock could have solved them. Had he at first been horrified at his own involvement in the desperation that had made Sherlock take his own life, he insisted now on Sherlock not being dead at all. The poor sod...

Mrs Hudson sometimes went into 221B when John was out. Listening into the silence. With Sherlock here, it had never been silent. Busy steps, violin music, erratic discussions, shouting at ‘boring’ clients, arguments with his brother, shooting the walls, laughing heartily – Sherlock had always known how to make his presence known. And now? Now nobody made a noise anymore. And there was certainly no laughter. Even when John was here, the flat was almost completely silent. And she was worried to bits about the doctor, as his mood had only gotten even darker after the funeral – always a point that really made people aware that a loved one was irrevocably gone. He was rarely in 221B during the day anymore. And it seemed as if he was spending a lot of this time on the graveyard. Greg had said that he had caught him talking to Sherlock there, begging him to come back. He had quit his job at the clinic. He didn't want to see anyone. He drank too much and had stopped seeing his therapist. John Watson was a mess.

It was very hard not to despair.

°°°

“It’s almost done,” Sherlock stated after putting the last file onto the table.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. They are almost all ready. Minsk is the only questionable target. But it will be fine in three days, I guess.” More than six weeks had passed since Sherlock's ‘death’. And now his time of being confined in this safe house was nearly over. As was his forced absence from London and his friends’ lives.

It would be hard to let him go. For a moment Mycroft wondered how it would be if he just kept Sherlock here. Forever. He shook his head over himself. His brother would completely freak out. They had gotten so much closer. He would never risk that.

‘ _Even though it’s not nearly close enough’,_ he was mocked by that always-right inner voice.

No. It wasn’t of course. But it was all he would ever get.

Sherlock looked around, his expression pensive. “I will miss this house a bit,” he admitted.

Mycroft felt stupidly touched. “Well, you can return anytime if you feel like being away from the hectic city life.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “The British government will allow that?”

“It’s _my_ house, little brother. I bought it. Just for this occasion.” Sherlock had never asked him whose house it was, and Mycroft had not seen a reason to tell him. But now… Now he felt that Sherlock should know how far he was willing to go for him. In fact, if necessary, he would have taken care of Sherlock's mission himself, if it just meant to know his brother alive and kicking. But he was glad that he had people, very capable people, for that. He wouldn’t want to die himself and miss out on being in Sherlock's good books again.

Sherlock stared at him, speechless for a moment. “You are crazy!” he said, in awe.

Yes. That was probably true. “Well, I guess I’ll keep it and use it for this purpose, too. I like this place.” He had always been a city man, just like Sherlock. But the nature around this house was beautiful. He had not had much opportunity to explore it. And Sherlock had had none at all. Perhaps they would do it. There was a forest. A lake. Idyllic.

‘ _Yes, you two are going to walk there hand in hand.’_

Only when Sherlock gave him a questioning look Mycroft realised that he had groaned loudly.

°°°

“That was good.” Sherlock leaned back against the backrest of the couch, patting his flat belly. He was almost bursting. They’d had pasta with salmon, a tasty salad and Angelo’s tiramisu. Angelo had been at the funeral too; Sherlock had discovered him in the back. Sobbing loudly. Damn… Even a restaurant owner was mourning him.

Sherlock had never realised how many lives were affected by his.

And damn – he had never thought about how it affected his brother.

The brother who gave him a fond smile now. “It’s great to see you eat with such appetite. I hope you will continue to cook and eat healthy food when you’re back.”

“Maybe… we could cook together once in a while. At your house? Only if you have time…” Sherlock wondered why he was feeling so… shy all at once. Did he really doubt that Mycroft wanted to spend time with him when this was over? ‘This’ was only happening because Mycroft cared about him so much. Sherlock had rejected him all his adult life – why? He had honestly no idea – and he would certainly not do that anymore. Overprotective or not – his brother was -… Yes. Mycroft was a good man.

Mycroft gaped at him in amazement for a moment before his _[handsome]_ features turned into an expression of sheer… adoration? Affection? Both. “I would like that very much. And once this mission is finished and I’ve kept up with the work that had to wait for now, I will be home for dinner almost every evening so…” He broke off, looking sheepish, as if he thought he had appeared too eager.

“Great,” Sherlock said at once, not wanting Mycroft to feel embarrassed.

‘ _Sentiment. He doesn’t seem so averse to it after all…’_

No. In fact, Mycroft was full of sentiment. _The Iceman_ , Irene – or rather Moriarty – had called him. Bullshit. Goldfish… They indeed saw but did not observe. Especially those who were only interested in themselves after all...

Sherlock caught himself smiling at Mycroft, and Mycroft regarded him with caution for a moment and then he smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally unrelated to this story...
> 
> https://images.app.goo.gl/HBbp9EfoFTmXWmhw7
> 
> I'm still shocked. Life is not fair. Maybe it is true - only the good die young.


	8. Chapter 8

“Mr Holmes.”

“Anthea.” Sherlock gave Mycroft's right hand, attractive as ever, dressed in a tight, grey skirt and a black blouse, an ironic little bow.

She smiled. “No hard feelings, hm?”

He waved that away, briefly glancing at Mycroft, who was directing everything to be set up in the formerly almost empty room on the second floor of the house. Tables. Chairs. Monitors, laptops, all kinds of other equipment. “Not at all. You must have had a field day, throwing me into the trunk and driving my drugged arse here.” How many times had she witnessed him hissing at his brother like a snake over the years? And how often had she seen Mycroft being upset and possibly even hurt about his behaviour?

“Ah. You don't seriously think your brother would have allowed us to transport you in any uncomfortable way?” she chided him. “I was with you on the back seat. You had your head in my lap.”

Sherlock shuddered at the thought. This was closer than he had ever wanted to be to a woman’s private parts. For a brief moment he saw himself lying like this, but the lap his head was resting on in this very vivid image was not Anthea’s. It was Mycroft's.

“Are you okay?” She gently put her hand onto his arm.

“Of course,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Two more hours…” The night of nights...

“Yes. It’s all prepared.”

The attacks would be fast and hopefully efficient. There would be arrests in some of the cases. There would be dead criminals in others.

Sherlock looked at his brother again. Mycroft was completely focused on the matter at hand. He would speak to every agent again beforehand, give his last orders. He was nervous; it was impossible to miss. But he would be guiding them all through it – together with Sherlock.

He had been surprised that Mycroft had not done this last step in Whitehall. It would have been so much easier for him. Instead he had assured Sherlock that this would not happen without him around, and that he didn’t want to risk bringing Sherlock back to London before it was really over, not even in disguise. A part of Sherlock had wondered if Mycroft was perhaps just reluctant to give up this originally forced arrangement any sooner than he had to. Sherlock would not return to London directly afterwards. They had to wait until everything was cleaned up and it had been made sure that nobody who could still harm him or his friends had escaped. And of course his name had to be cleared before. Three more days, probably. In the beginning of his stay in this house, when he had been cursing and ranting, these days would have seemed like an eternity. Now it appeared more like a holiday…

“I’ll make tea,” Anthea said, putting her purse onto a chair.

“Sure. That’s what you’re there for.” Sherlock winked at her to show her that he was kidding. He had long understood that this woman was very smart and very dangerous. She could probably have him on his back with her high-heeled foot on his throat within the blink of an eye.

“Exactly,” she retorted, unoffended, and winked back, and Sherlock grinned at her.

When he was standing apart from the busy people on the other side of the room, he caught himself staring at his brother.

°°°

For more than an hour, it was all tension and hectic activity. Mycroft was on the phone with approximately forty people at the same time, all monitors were showing several videos, there were shouts and shots coming through to them, and Sherlock was completely focused on the climax of what had been supposed to be his mission. And he wondered how he had been seriously able to think he could have done all of this alone. Moriarty’s people were falling like dominoes – arrested where possible, killed where the authorities were too corrupt and involved in the criminal activities themselves.

Sherlock had never seen his brother so agitated and dishevelled, his eyes so alive and his tall, slim body so tense. Mycroft might despise legwork, but he surely was very good at coordinating it.

It happened right before it was all over. A shot killed no criminal but an agent. Agent Martin Lowell, thirty years old, shooting back and completing his mission right before his eyes closed forever. Sherlock saw his image in his mind palace, where he had stored them all, including their agendas and character traits. The agent had been tall, blond and attractive, with large blue eyes and a penchant for working out. In his spare time, he had written poems of all things. And Mycroft gasped in shock when he saw the man die, getting all pale and shaky on his legs, and Sherlock, who was terrified himself, felt a pang of a feeling he had not known before, a feeling so strong and disturbing that he felt no desire of putting a label on it.

“Was he your lover?” he surprised himself and Mycroft, and Anthea, too, as she had turned to her boss with concerned eyes.

“What?” Mycroft asked, looking not only horrified but confused now. And weirdly vulnerable.

And then Sherlock understood – Mycroft was of course shocked about losing an agent during a mission he had been orchestrating and he might even mourn the man for the person he had been. But when he had seen him fall, he had thought that this could have been Sherlock…

“Nothing,” he mumbled, feeling ashamed but also relieved and what was going on? And he caught Anthea’s knowing look and sweat broke out on his forehead.

Thankfully, Mycroft immediately turned back to the matters at hand, and for the next three hours, everybody was occupied with wrapping up what had been planned for so long and had now finally reached its conclusion. It would take a few more days to make sure they had really caught everybody, but when Sherlock fell onto his bed, a large weight had been taken off his shoulders, and he could imagine very well how Mycroft was feeling now. Mycroft. Who had looked as if he was close to hugging him before he had left with Anthea but had chosen to just give him a sheepish wave instead.

Sherlock was exhausted, tired but also wired for more than one reason, and he lay awake for another hour before sleep finally claimed him, and it was an hour filled with pondering and coming to conclusions that would have appeared completely out of the question just two months ago but were inevitable now.

°°°

“Thank you for coming, Miss Hooper. I’m so afraid that he…” Mrs Hudson stopped, heart-breaking sobs getting the better of her.

Molly felt completely out her depth, trapped, anxious… What was she supposed to do here? Save John Watson? From himself? She of all people?

“It was so hard for him since it happened, but now…”

Molly nodded numbly. Sherlock had been all over the news once more all day. News with a very different tone. The same papers that had condemned him and called him a fraud, a kidnapper, a disgrace and a criminal now had to confess that they had been all wrong. What everybody who knew Sherlock – apart from these sodding people in the Met – had known at once, they had to admit now. Sherlock was exactly what he had always seemed to be. A great man with a great mind, helping the police catch killers and high-profile thieves and serial arsonists that had done a lot of damage. No matter what he was thinking of the general population – he had always helped them. He was a hero, not only in Molly’s perhaps biased eyes.

And now John’s not even nearly healed wounds had been reopened and he had to face the stupidity and hypocrisy of the media again. John believed that Sherlock had committed suicide because people had wronged him – and when Molly thought about it now, she wondered why John had not gotten suspicious at that. Because since when had Sherlock cared about the opinion of basically anyone? Anyone but John’s… So maybe John thought that Sherlock had killed himself because he had thought John had lost faith in him? What a mess this was…

“Please. Try to talk to him. He won’t listen to me. And I called this nice DI but John wouldn’t even accept his call…”

No, John and Greg weren’t friends anymore. Greg had been one of ‘them’ in John’s eyes. That he had been forced to arrest Sherlock – and apparently he had threatened to arrest John too as he had tried to interfere – was a fact that John accepted, but Molly supposed that he still blamed Greg in a way. Blamed him for not doing more. For not saving Sherlock from the hyenas in the Yard. They had not even looked at one another at the funeral and Molly was sure they had not been in contact at all. So Greg could hardly help John in his desperation now. But how was _she_ supposed to do it?

She winced when she heard a loud bump from 221B.

“Oh dear. Please, go upstairs. He always liked you!” pleaded Mrs Hudson.

Molly was rather sure that John didn't give a damn about her. They had never been exactly friends. They had not spoken with each other since the funeral. But she nodded.

“He has a gun, you know?” added Mrs Hudson, making Molly stop on the spot. “I’m afraid he could…” She sobbed again.

Molly swallowed. John wouldn’t shoot at her, would he? No. Not if he was sober. “Does he… drink?”

“No. Just coffee, all the time. I think he has nightmares. He doesn’t want to sleep.”

God, poor John. Molly took a deep breath and climbed the stairs.

She found the doctor in the living room, a mug in front of him, the gun in his right hand. He sighed when he saw her. “Great. Who will she send next? The Salvation Army?”

Molly gaped at him, hardly noticing his sarcastic insult. The man looked absolutely horrible. He was pale and hadn’t shaved. His hair was a tousled mess. He looked like a man who had nothing to lose and knew it. “John.” She had no idea what to say. This man needed help, and urgently so, but he would hardly accept it, and certainly not from her. Her gaze fell on the gun again and John sighed.

“What do you want? Tell me it’ll all be fine? Now that everybody knows that he’s not what they said he is? What the fuck does it matter! It makes it just worse!” He sighed again. “Sit down if you must. I hate it when people stand in the door and look at me as if I was an ape at the zoo.”

Molly almost smiled at that. She slowly crossed the room and was about to sit down in Sherlock's chair when John hissed, “Not there!”

She almost fled the room. Staring at him like a trapped animal, she almost expected him to shoot at her for real. With another sigh, he threw the gun onto the table.

“Sorry. Take that chair.” He gestured at the one where the clients had used to sit. “I don’t know what to do… I can’t… go on anymore.” He didn’t look at her. He had not given her a proper look since she had walked in.

“You must! Sherlock wouldn’t want you to give up!” And God… Why had she not thought about this before? Sherlock's name had been cleared! So they had obviously done what they had wanted to do. Sherlock would come back! Soon!

“It doesn’t matter what he’d want because he’s fucking _dead_!” John shouted, took the mug and smashed it against the wall. He shot up from the chair and began to pace through the room. “I see him everywhere! I hear him laugh. Snort. Whatever I do, I wonder what he would say to it. It’s so fucking unfair! Why did he have to do that?! We would have gone through all this together. I’d have never let him down!” John was crying now, and Molly was sitting there, frozen, and then she cried out when he marched to the table to get the gun.

“No, don’t! You can’t do that! Sherlock would…”

“Stop saying that! He’s dead!” He looked around with his eyes wide in pain and terror. “I can’t bear it anymore.” He grabbed the weapon and Molly desperately reached for his wrist.

“No, don’t, John! He’ll be back. Sherlock will be back…” Her last words were only a whisper now.

John shook his head, looking confused and angry. “What are you talking about? He…” And then he understood. He had finally looked at her and seen the truth in her eyes. He got ghostly pale, his big blue eyes threatening to bulge out of their sockets. “What? He’s… alive? He… _faked_ it?” His tone was something between relief and absolute shock.

“He did it because of Moriarty. He…”

“Who knew?! Why did _you_ know it?” His voice was hoarse with wrath now.

“I… I had to get the body. He said the kidnapper of these children must have looked like him. And Jim… must have gotten rid of him afterwards.” She saw how his mind was running wild with conclusions.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He wanted to go after Moriarty’s people throughout Europe but Mycroft…”

“Mycroft knew it, too?!” He came even closer, his jaws clenched dangerously.

“Yes.” Molly wondered if she was going to get out of this flat alive. She had never seen anyone so angry in all her life. All his hurt and depression had been channelled into this fury now. “He… brought him somewhere. Agents did the work.” She looked at him pleadingly. “Please, John. He had good reasons. And he’ll come back now that everybody knows he’s innocent. Just wait and -…”

“So Mycroft knows where he is?” John said slowly, his eyes glistening. He had probably not heard a word she had just said.

“Yes,” Molly whispered. “You can’t go to him and threaten him. You know how he is.”

“Oh, that’s not my plan,” John chuckled, and the noise sent shivers down her spine. “Get out now. I have to shower and shave. For Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't resist putting this "I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes" line from The Empty Hearse to good use here.   
> And nobody worry, please. This won't be a straight repeat of the restaurant scene :)


	9. Chapter 9

“What? What’s wrong?” Why did Mycroft look so strange?

His brother leaned his umbrella against the wall and put the bag with their dinner onto the small table next to the door. “It’s fine, Sherlock. Your name is cleared. And we are certain to have caught them all. You can return now anytime.” He slipped out of his coat and hung it up.

It was rather late on this second day since their mission had found its conclusion. The evening before, Mycroft had only dropped by for a short time, looking totally exhausted after the night they had been spending with watching and helping the agents strike and a day at work spent with picking up all loose ends.

“That’s great.” Sherlock eyed his brother curiously. There was something Mycroft wasn’t telling him, obviously. Nothing dangerous, probably, but it clearly irked him. He didn't see much sense in urging big brother to tell him though. If Mycroft didn’t want to talk about it, he could hardly force him. Besides, Sherlock was very focused on what he wanted to happen this evening. It made him feel wired and anxious that he wanted it but he was not the man who backed out of anything he... desired.

He cleared his throat. “Mycroft…” And then two of the door alarms went off in the same moment that somebody hammered against the door, and Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“It’s alright, little brother,” Mycroft said hoarsely. “It’s John. He has followed me here. Molly Hooper told him that you’re still alive.”

“What?!” He had wanted to take care of that himself when he could be absolutely sure that nobody was still out there to threaten his friends.

Mycroft nodded. “She called me to tell me that she’d had to do it. He… was about to kill himself.”

Sherlock paled. “Oh God.” A myriad of images suggested themselves, none of them pleasant.

“Yes. I knew he would try to find out where you are and, well, I didn’t see much point in telling my driver to lose him. He was using Mrs Hudson’s car. Without asking her I assume...”

“You should have called me!”

“Maybe.” Mycroft looked beaten all at once. “Well. Shall we let him in?”

Sherlock could only nod.

Mycroft turned and opened the door. Sherlock could see John pacing in front of the house, scratching his head. When he saw them, he shot forward as fast as his rather short legs allowed him.

“John.” And Sherlock realised that his best friend – pale and slimmer than he had ever seen him, his cheeks bearing bloody marks from vigorous shaving – was looking completely pissed off; his hands were balled into fists and his lips were pressed to a thin line. This wasn’t the reunion Sherlock had imagined.

He took a few steps back. “John, I… I can explain…”

“Do you have any _idea_ …,” John shook his head, the smile he always showed when he was extremely angry playing around his lips – Sherlock had always found this disconcerting; who smiled when they were full of wrath after all? “Do you have any _idea_ how you let us SUFFER?!”

“Doctor Watson, calm down, please.” Mycroft looked decidedly disturbed and surprised by John’s reaction, too.

John ignored the older brother, his furious eyes glued to Sherlock. “Look at you. You’ve never looked better. Had a fine time here, right, not wasting a thought on us?”

Sherlock knew how he was looking after weeks of working out regularly, sitting in the garden for hours on end, consuming not so much as a single cigarette, sleeping nine hours per night and eating healthily. “I know it must seem strange to you but it’s not what you -…”

“I kidnapped him,” Mycroft interrupted him, apparently sure – and probably rightfully so – that nothing Sherlock could say would calm John down.

He had a right to be angry, of course; Sherlock was the first to admit that. And still it hurt…

John whirled around to the older man. “Ah, yeah. That’s your speciality after all.”

“He did, John,” Sherlock said, his tone pleading. “I wanted to go on this mission myself but instead he forced me to stay in this house.” It was the truth but somehow it sounded wrong. Somehow it sounded like a betrayal of Mycroft even though Mycroft had brought it up himself. And a glance at his brother told him that Mycroft was hurt by his words even though of course he tried not to show it. But this was important now. If he didn’t get things right with John, this evening would end in a catastrophe… At least his friend had apparently not brought his gun…

“Ah, that makes it better of course!” John screeched. “You would have gone away to risk your life for a great adventure and would have probably gotten killed for real! And I _still_ wouldn’t have known anything about your true whereabouts!”

Well, despite the appalling lack of faith in his undercover abilities, John had a point of course. “I had to do it, John. He’d threatened to kill you.”

John stared at him in confusion, shutting his mouth.

Sherlock nodded vehemently. “Moriarty, John. He killed himself on the roof, and he had assassins on you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, and there was no way to call them off when he was dead. I had to fake my death and take care of his criminal web.”

“And why couldn’t you just _tell_ me?!” John’s voice was echoing through the house.

“Because you needed to grieve in a believable way, and you’re just too honest, John. What if you had given it away, just like Molly gave it away today? I couldn’t risk that. I’m so sorry, John.” Sherlock had tears in his eyes now, and his knees were feeling like jelly. “I’m so sorry I made you suffer so much. I wrote you a letter. I hope you will read it and understand.” It sounded so stupid to his own ears. For the first time since he had pretended to jump to his death, he was _really_ aware of what he had let his friends and especially John gone through – hell...

For a moment nobody said a word. Mycroft was standing a metre apart from them like a silent bystander, obviously torn between stepping between them to prevent John from doing something drastic and letting them sort it out themselves. Sherlock and John were staring into each other’s eyes. Sherlock had not felt that tense and desperate since his confrontation with Moriarty. In fact, he felt like throwing up the next moment...

And then John huffed out a deep sigh. “You utter _cock_ ,” he mumbled, and then he stepped forward and ripped Sherlock into his arms, and Sherlock slumped against him, all but sobbing in deep relief and feeling completely boneless and emotionally exhausted.

Mycroft cleared his throat after a few seconds of watching this tableau. “Gentlemen. We should have dinner now. I’ve brought three boxes of your friend Angelo’s lasagne.”

And Sherlock looked up, his arms still wrapped around John, and his lips turned into a smile; a smile that Mycroft returned after a moment of hesitation. “Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Let’s have dinner, okay, John?”

The doctor released his iron grip around Sherlock's waist. “Okay. You’re alive. You’re really alive! I asked you for it. On the graveyard…”

Sherlock’s heart melted some more at this after having already done so at the thought of Mycroft buying dinner for all three of them, anticipating these developments. And by the image of John, begging him for not being dead. “Well, be careful what you wish for, hm?” he joked, trying to lighten the mood for everybody.

John glowered at him before he chuckled. “Yeah. Should have known they’re saying that for a reason. Will you come back with me then?”

Sherlock didn’t look at his brother but he could sense his tension. He shook his head. “No, not yet. There are still a few things to wrap up. Tomorrow, I guess. You can tell Mrs Hudson. And Lestrade. You know, I can’t call them. My brother blocked all numbers but his one.” And Mummy’s, but he chose not to mention that.

“Why does that not surprise me?” John grumbled and glanced at Mycroft, who was looking a bit confused but pleased that Sherlock didn’t want to leave right away. But then the ex-army-captain shook his head and grinned wryly. “Totally fooled me. Thought you were really mourning him. And that speech…”

“Apologies, Doctor Watson. It was necessary.”

John waved that away. “Yeah, I get that. Want to hear all the details when you’re back, Sherlock. And of course I want to read your letter. God, the news channels, fuck, the whole _internet_ will explode.”

“Let them,” Sherlock said dryly. He wasn’t looking forward to that circus.

“Damn, your parents… That’s why they weren’t at the funeral. They knew it too.” John shook his head.

“They live far away from London so they couldn’t give it away; well, of course they knew they were not allowed to tell anybody. And he only threatened the people closest to me.” He had never been particularly close to his parents. They were good people and he had gotten his intelligence from his mother, but they were so different from him and Mycroft, such social, embarrassingly normal people who didn’t really know how to deal with their complicated sons. It didn’t do to meet them more than once a year, usually for Christmas…

“But not you?” John turned to Mycroft.

Before he could answer, Sherlock said, “Moriarty was well aware he would crush them like a fly if they tried. Even he was afraid of the British Government.”

Mycroft blushed a bit and looked flattered. Still he shrugged. “Well… Maybe it was rather because I wasn’t that close to you.”

“He might have thought that, yes. He was wrong in so many ways after all…”

This time, Mycroft didn’t look flattered. He looked as if he was close to shedding a tear.

°°°

Mycroft felt weird when the door closed behind the doctor. The man had tucked into the delicious pasta as if he hadn’t had a proper meal for weeks, and judging by his looks, he probably hadn’t. He had kept staring at Sherlock the entire time as if he still couldn’t believe that he was sharing a meal with him. His wrath had vanished as if it had never been there. And before he had left, he had hugged Sherlock again, so tight as if he never wanted to let him go again.

And it had made Mycroft feel lost. Excluded. Probably just because he had never seen Sherlock exchange any physical contact with anyone. Let alone with the stocky, masculine doctor. And Sherlock had hugged his friend back heartily. It had not been a nice sight for Mycroft, even though he knew he had no reason to be jealous, none at all. Sherlock was not his lover. He was his brother. And John wasn’t his lover either but ‘just’ his best friend. They had not exactly shared any French kisses after all. And John had hugged him, Mycroft, too, after all, before and at the funeral, to get or spend comfort, probably both.

It had all been very emotional though. And Sherlock had never been that emotional with him. Well, why should he? Hadn’t Mycroft always preached that caring was not an advantage? That getting ‘involved’ was a nasty thing to do? That ‘sentiment’ was despicable and to be avoided at all costs? That hardly invited anyone to be that cosy with him… And why should Sherlock even want that? And why had he denied that they hadn’t been close? Why had he not gone with John even though he could have very well done so? All these questions were whirling through his mind within two seconds.

Then Sherlock slowly turned around and looked at him. “That went better than expected, considering how it began.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Yes.” In fact, he had not even expected John to be so angry. In his personal inexperience with horribly sentimental and therefore unpredictably acting people, he had figured that John would simply be over the moon that Sherlock was still alive after his initial shock so he had, reluctantly, decided to let the sports car follow his limousine as if they were filming a stupid spy movie. That had been a tad naïve, especially since Miss Hooper had described John’s reaction to him… He had simply – and foolishly – assumed that seeing Sherlock would placate the doctor at once.

But in the end, nobody had been hit… And Sherlock was still here. “Why did you not accompany him? I wouldn’t have objected. You’re not my… prisoner anymore.” He had been stupidly affected by Sherlock blaming him even though it had only been the truth after all. All those weeks in which they had been together so often, getting along so well, must have confused his brain…

Sherlock stepped closer to him. Almost into his personal space. “I didn’t want to.”

Mycroft's heart started to race. “You… Why not?”

And then Sherlock put his hands onto Mycroft's shoulders. “Because I wanted to do _this_.” And with this, he kissed him, and Mycroft gasped in surprise. But then his arms curled around Sherlock's waist as if they had a mind of their own, and he kissed him back, his brain almost short-circuiting at how soft Sherlock's lips were and how wonderful he tasted and that this was happening at all, and they kissed until they were breathless.

When he pulled back, he stared at his little brother in wonder, unable to think of a single word that would be sufficient for this moment.

Sherlock looked at him in a way he had hopefully never looked at anyone else. “Stay with me tonight? Please?”

And Mycroft could only nod, and he just so refrained from pinching himself to make sure that he was not just dreaming that his biggest wish had come true.

°°°

In London, 70 Whitehall, Anthea disabled the cameras and bugs in the house that had been the home of the famous Sherlock Holmes for almost two months. Of course she would have loved to keep some of them working for a while longer – to watch them. But her smart boss might notice that she had indulged her voyeuristic tendencies when they met the next day and be disappointed with her and certainly very embarrassed, and that couldn’t happen. She had earned his trust over the past six years and she didn't want to risk that – the knowledge that this man, who basically mistrusted everybody, had faith in her meant too much to her. The kissing she had been allowed herself to watch had to do. And the melting looks they had exchanged afterwards! She caught herself sighing happily. After all this time of pining for his completely oblivious and frankly bratty younger brother, Mycroft Holmes had finally found the happiness he deserved.

When she had shut everything down, she mumbled fondly, “Do it right, you crazy Holmes boys,” before she left the office to go home, leaving the two brothers to their overdue realisation that they belonged together and hopefully to some juicy love-making.

Damn… She would have _really_ loved to watch...


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and some rather tame smut, finally :)

Sherlock had never understood the common people’s obsession with love and sex. He had never been in love with anyone and sex had been limited to rather exasperated and impatient wanking sessions if it really wasn’t avoidable anymore, usually early in the morning when his neglected cock had made itself known with some urgency. He had been aware that he was gay by orientation of course but he had never planned to act on it.

And now some rather tame kisses with just a bit of tongue-tangling had turned him into a boneless and silly-grinning creature with a cock trying to escape its confinements, a groin on fire and hips hyper aware of the hands that were grabbing them. He was jelly in Mycroft's arms and he cursed himself for not having realised before what he was feeling for his brother and what Mycroft had certainly been feeling for him for a long time. He had planned to get closer to him tonight but the impact it had on him had surprised him. Not everything could be deduced and anticipated it seemed…

“You should have told me,” he said when he felt that he could dare speak again, stroking Mycroft's cheek with his thumb.

Mycroft, still looking as if he couldn’t believe his luck, gave him a wry smile. “I suppose that wouldn’t have gone down that well, little brother. I never even dreamt I could have you. I mean, that you could… love me?” He stumbled over the big word, and Sherlock couldn’t blame him.

“Yes,” he said nevertheless. “I do. Love you. I wouldn’t have pursued this if I didn’t.”

Mycroft stared at him in awe, looking so much younger and softer now that his shields were all gone. “So you were jealous? Of the dead agent?”

“Yeah.” No reason to deny it. No reason to deny anything anymore. Wasn’t this what love was about? Being able to tell the other one the blatant truth? Well, Sherlock supposed that lovers lied to each other at all times. Wouldn’t make much sense for them though. They were too experienced in detecting lies… And still he had missed this important bit of information… “For how long?” he asked, curiously.

Mycroft grimaced. “For way longer than I’m willing to admit…”

Sherlock grinned. “Don't waste your and my time with pointless regrets. I don't care if I was still wearing nappies as you never acted on these… desires.”

Mycroft looked outraged. “You were not wearing _nappies_ anymore!” he protested, horrified. “You might not have been entirely of age though,” he admitted, obviously coming to the same conclusion – this utterly forbidden and unique relationship would only work under the condition of almost complete honesty.

Sherlock figured that some lies were okay though. White lies, didn’t they call it that? Lies to spare the other one pain. Oh well. He would probably be lying all the time then. No, he realised then. He had changed. His confinement in this house had changed him. A house Mycroft had bought just for the purpose of locking him up here. What would he have done with it if it hadn’t been necessary for him to jump off that roof? Probably sell it again and make lots of money with it… In any way Sherlock was not the same person anymore that he had been when he entered this house. He knew now that he could endure boredom. Or rather – he didn’t get bored that easily anymore. He had learned to cherish the quieter sides of life. Mycroft would be very pleased about that. But if he had not figured that out already, he wouldn’t get to know it now. Sherlock had other things on his mind. Not-that-quiet things. “Make love to me, brother,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Forget feeling guilty about this. I know you did. I want it. I demand it.”

“Tonight? Isn’t it too soon? I mean you have only just realised that you -….”

“I don't care. You’ve waited long enough. And I don't want to go back before we do it.” He wanted to… seal their newfound bond? Show Mycroft that he being back in Baker Street would not change anything? Well, it would, obviously. John would be there, and Sherlock did not plan to confide in him. He wasn’t sure at all that John would accept them being lovers. And he had demanded a lot from his friend already and had been lucky to have his forgiveness even though of course he had acted out of necessity, not malice. But anyway, he would not allow this to fail. He would make the time and he would deceive anybody who needed to be deceived, because he wanted this more than he had wanted anything else before.

Mycroft was scrutinising him, obviously reading him like a book. “So… You want us to start something… permanent?”

“Why, did you think I wanted to fuck with you once and then return to London as if nothing had happened? Is that what you call ‘being in love’?” Sherlock felt both amused and offended.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Mycroft said sheepishly and squeezed Sherlock's waist. “I just… It’s so new for you.”

“You can say that again. Irene didn’t call me a virgin for nothing.” There was a question in his voice and Mycroft didn’t miss it.

“Technically, I’m not. But… whatever happened has happened a long time ago and it meant nothing. And I want nothing more than being your… lover. Your partner. Even though it will have to happen behind closed doors only. Preferably mine.”

“No objections, brother dear.” Mycroft lived in a house almost as secluded as this one. A quiet area, no direct neighbours, high bushes blocking the view. Perfect for indulging in an incestuous relationship. “I don't need to shout it from the rooftops. Oops.”

Mycroft laughed out loud – a sound that Sherlock had probably not heard for twenty years, and a sound he could and hopefully would get used to. “No, I’m afraid that won't be possible. Even though I think there is someone who wouldn’t be at all surprised. Oh God… The cameras!” He paled.

And Sherlock remembered Anthea apparently noticing his jealousy of the then dead agent. She had not looked surprised at all indeed… Damn… On the other hand… “Don't fret, brother. I’m sure they are not working anymore.”

Mycroft stared at him and then he relaxed. “Yes. I would actually bet on it.”

Sherlock thought that there might be the slight possibility that she had not turned the surveillance off though. But if she hadn't, then certainly not for the purpose of blackmailing them… Well, that wasn’t something he wanted to waste their time on now. And having an ally was always good. If Mycroft trusted her, and he obviously did, it was fine with him, and if she got off on watching them, he didn’t begrudge her. “Come now, brother. We have a whole night to spend with you showing me lovely things.” He didn’t want to think of the other men who had been allowed to touch his brother, no matter how long ago that had happened. But of course it wasn’t that bad that they were not both absolute beginners. Mycroft would guide him. It’s what he could do best after all.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft held him back from leading the way to his bedroom.

And Sherlock could read his mind as easily as Mycroft had read his. _‘Are you sure this is really about love? Are you sure it’s not just an experiment? Are you sure it’s not in any unconscious way getting back at me for locking you up? Are you sure you won’t have enough after the first time and drop me?’_

And Sherlock, who had known for a long time that there were no guarantees in life, just nodded, wordlessly expressing with his eyes that he had never been with anyone before as nobody had been worth it, and that he was so eager to be with Mycroft was because he was absolutely sure that this was what he wanted. That it was Mycroft whom he wanted. His big brother, the Iceman to others but so soft to him. Mycroft, who had made sure that he was not missing out on anything but the fun of the action here. Mycroft, who would do anything to protect him from the troubles of the world, if Sherlock only let him.

And Mycroft looked at him, seemed to look right into his soul, before he took Sherlock's hand and led the way himself, and Sherlock followed him happily and without so much as a hint of hesitation.

°°°

It was so difficult to wrap his mind around this. That he was allowed to let his hands run up and down Sherlock's smooth, sensitive sides. That his lips might wander over the delicate skin of his neck, that his teeth could nibble at his earlobe while his hands were bravely squeezing what would have been the centre of his sexual fantasies if he had ever allowed himself to even have them – Sherlock's glorious globes. And of course Sherlock's hands and lips were not idle while Mycroft was touching and exploring him. They were basically everywhere – apart from his cock, for now. Probably because their penises were grinding against one another deliciously as their bodies were pressed flush against each other.

Even his malicious inner voice had shut up at this miracle. If Mycroft imagined it as a person, it was one that was watching them now with their mouth open, their eyes bulging out of the sockets in astonishment, and the silly image made him smile against Sherlock's lips when he was kissing him deeply now.

They were kneeling on Sherlock's bed after having stripped their clothes to both sides of the bed, both greedily drinking in the sight. Of course Mycroft was the winner in this, getting a beautiful young man with a body like a marble statue but so much warmer and livelier. All the working out over the past weeks had made him look fitter than ever. Sherlock was getting, well, an overworked office inhabitant with a belly not exactly bulging but soft and far from being plain muscles, covered in black hair like the rest of his torso. But Sherlock didn’t seem to mind at all, if his eagerness in which he was pawing and probing at him was anything to go by.

Finally Mycroft gently urged Sherlock to lie on his back.

His brother grinned at him from below. “That’s how you love to see me most, don't you? On my back, surrendering, at your mercy?”

“I have never seen you do anything of the kind,” Mycroft disagreed but he had to admit he was rather a dominant man, in- and outside of the bedroom, and he had certainly lorded his power over his brother in many ways over the past decades. He was hovering over Sherlock now. “Do you mind?”

“Do I look as if I minded?” Sherlock winked at him.

“Not exactly.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Have your wicked way with me.”

How could anyone resist such an invitation? Mycroft certainly couldn’t and he didn’t see any reason in even trying, and so he started his task of taking his baby brother apart.

°°°

The next half an hour or so felt like a journey to another world. A world full of unknown feelings and tastes and smells and being divided into single molecules just to be put back together by soft, warm lips, tender hands and lovely big brother being all caring and knowing all the buttons to press.

Sherlock's mind palace almost suffered an overload when he tried to file all these new experiences away. But of course he planned to repeat this and explore his sexuality a lot more with the one man he had ever deemed worthy of doing it with, and even without his mind palace functioning properly at all those lovely things to be filed away, he would have never forgotten how he had been feeling when Mycroft had kissed and nibbled at his nipples, his hand running up and down on Sherlock's heftily moving stomach. How Mycroft's warm breath had ghosted over his neck, how his wiry body hair had felt against Sherlock's palms, how silky the skin of his long, massive cock had felt under his exploring fingers and how sticky the tip had become under his rather clumsy ministrations. And of course how Mycroft's lips had felt around his cock, sucking gently, and how his brother’s prick had twitched against his tongue when he had carefully returned the favour.

They ended up flush against each other once more, Mycroft circling their members with one large hand, rubbing them against each other, and when they both spilled their seed, groaning into each other’s mouths, it felt like having died and woken up in heaven.

He lay with his arm wrapped around Mycroft's waist as tightly as he could, feeling his brother’s erratic heartbeat against his chest.

“Brother,” he mumbled, his lips touching Mycroft's neck when he spoke, “you can lock me up anytime again. But next time, you’ll have to stay with me all the time so I can take full advantage of you.” How much time they had wasted! Instead of being at his brother's throat in anger, he should have sucked his cock from the beginning on!

“Consider it arranged,” Mycroft whispered and kissed his nose. “So I take it you liked this enough to have a repeat?”

“Stating the obvious, brother dear?”

“Apologies. It’s just so remarkably unexpected, all of this.”

“I know. I want to do everything with you. I want to know all your kinks and preferences and give you some more.”

“Oh, Sherlock. I might take you at your word,” purred Mycroft, rubbing his back.

“Do that, brother, do that.” Sherlock snuggled against him, and not caring about the mess on his stomach, he slowly drifted off to sleep in the arms of the man he knew he was the safest with in all this world.


	11. Chapter 11

The house was silent when Sherlock stepped in at eight thirty the next morning. Strange… It didn't really feel like coming home. He hadn’t been away for even two months and had obviously changed a lot in this short time. But that feeling of being a stranger in his own home would hopefully vanish. As hard as it had been to pack up his stuff and get into the car that would bring Mycroft to work and him to Baker Street, he was well aware that he had to go back. His friends were waiting. His job was waiting. The press was waiting… The news of him being alive would make the internet explode, he assumed. It didn't mean anything to him. They had condemned him at the slightest bit of ‘evidence’, placed by a criminal mastermind, turning him into the Antichrist. Now that the full truth about Moriarty had been revealed and they would get to know that Sherlock had taken his network down – because that was what they would get told and it was true to at least some extent and he didn’t even feel bitter about not being more physically involved anymore, fine, not very much bitter at least – they would turn him into a hero. He was neither. He was just Sherlock.

He climbed the stairs as quietly as he could. And grinned when he saw the empty champagne bottle and the used glasses on the table. Three of them. So John had celebrated a bit with Mrs Hudson and Lestrade (not Molly; he could tell that by the state of the sofa pillows). He was glad that John had chosen to forgive the DI. They needed to work with him after all. And Lestrade didn't deserve any hassle. It had not been his fault.

In his bedroom, he stored the clothes he had brought. Mycroft had very good taste. Well, of course he had. He had chosen him, Sherlock, after all. He didn't even mind the silly grin that was pulling at his lips at this thought. When he was alone, he was allowed to grin like the fool in love that he was.

He looked at the microscope in the corner. He didn't feel the urge to hurl himself into a new experiment. He wasn’t giddy at the thought that Lestrade might need his help soon. Instead, he sat down with a glass of water in the living room, stretching his legs. He felt calm. Content. Happy. Oh, the urge of actually doing something would return. But he doubted that he would ever feel so frantic again. So awfully wired. Apart from in Mycroft's bedroom, of course. Wouldn’t it be nice to channel all his restless energy into the lovemaking with his brother? He chuckled at that. He would wear big brother out. Oh, and what fun they would have doing it. Doing everything two men could do with each other. Probably without involving whips, nappies, knives and throwing other people into the mix. But they would do everything they would both be comfortable with. And just kissing his brother for hours while cuddled up on his bed sounded like heaven to him. Yes. He had changed. Into a totally sappy sod, head over heels in love. And he didn’t mind it one bit.

“Sherlock!”

He almost dropped the glass at the screeching but then he grinned and got up to spread his arms. “Mrs Hudson. Not dead!”

And then he had an armful of sobbing landlady and thought that he really felt ridiculously happy.

°°°

She knew it. Mycroft immediately knew for sure what he had already suspected when he entered his office. He was sure that he wasn’t bearing any hickeys – at least not in any visible places… His lips were still a tad swollen but not too obviously. But she had probably known about his feelings for his brother for a long time. Well, she had been working for him for quite a while and probably knew him better than his own family. And she was smart…

Anthea, looking fresh and perfect as always, was giving him the brightest smile he had seen from her so far. “Good morning, sir.”

He stopped next to her desk. “Good morning, Anthea.” It wasn’t her real name but she had insisted on being called that when she had started working for him instead of her hated real name, Wilhelmina. He couldn’t blame her…

“I have all the reports here. Everything has gone remarkably smoothly.”

“Well, my brother planned this,” Mycroft said slowly.

“With your help, sir.”

“Yes.” What was he supposed to say? _‘Did you watch us?’_ The cameras were gone now, but they had still been in place last night…

“So your brother is back home?”

“He is.” She wouldn’t give them away. The fond look in her eyes said it all. Damn… Probably she had really watched them… He tried desperately not to blush.

“I’m sure he’s glad to be at Baker Street again. Even though this house probably felt like a second home to him in the end,” she said softly.

Mycroft smiled, allowing himself to relax. She would never tell him if she had really seen them make love. “I think so too.”

“Sometimes people have to be forced to do what’s good for them.”

“I didn’t force him!” Mycroft croaked, horrified.

“Oh, of course not, sir. I simply meant that by forcing him to stay in this house and by spending so much time with him, he realised what’s right for him.”

Yes. That was certainly true. Without these weeks under his care, Sherlock would have never fallen in love with him. But Mycroft hadn’t done it for this reason, not at all!

He almost sighed when this infernal voice in his head laughed a bit at that, and now it sounded like Anthea’s... But he really hadn’t done it for the purpose of winning Sherlock's heart. He would have never even dreamt that this biggest prize of all could be available for him.

“Would you like coffee?” she asked softly, and he nodded.

“Very strong one, please.”

She smirked. “On the way, sir.”

°°°

Greg wasn’t sure what he had expected when meeting Sherlock but certainly not that. Not this relaxed looking man, tanned and muscular, who had clearly gained a few pounds over the past weeks. Even with his slightly achy head thanks to his hangover – he had never been a heavy drinker and he had certainly hardly ever overindulged in cheap champagne – he wondered about the sight when he had let go of Sherlock, who had chuckled into his ear when Greg had embraced him fiercely, mumbling, “You bastard!”

“So… Your brother locked you up in a house in the middle of nowhere?” he asked while taking a seat in the client’s chair. Sherlock and John were sitting in their respective chairs, with the doctor having a decidedly fond expression on his face. Everybody was nursing a cup of good tea Mrs Hudson had made for them before going out to do grocery shopping for the party that would take place in Baker Street in the evening. Her idea, not Sherlock's…

“Yes,” Sherlock said, shaking his head with a grimace. “The overprotective tosser…”

John chuckled and Greg grinned, but he was secretly amazed. Sherlock had looked and sounded convincing, but there was something in his eyes that betrayed his alleged anger. A happy twinkle. Not quite hidden amusement. Or affection? Or perhaps he was just a bit mental today? What exactly did he think had really happened? That Sherlock had willingly foregone hurling himself into the adventure of bringing down the late Moriarty’s network? That he had simply taken some time off, letting everybody grieve for him just for fun? No. This had been Mycroft's doing, this was Mycroft's signature. Of course he wouldn’t let Sherlock risk his life just because a criminal had sent some snipers to kill his friends, who might mean a lot to Sherlock but nothing whatsoever to Mycroft. Greg had spent some time next to the older Holmes at hospital beds when Sherlock had almost overdosed or gotten himself injured in his recklessness. And Mycroft had only had eyes for Sherlock. He had wasted a few words on Greg but there had never been any warmth coming from him. One day Greg had witnessed a phone call Mycroft had accepted in such a situation, and since then he had known that Mycroft's code name (and the fact that he who claimed to be a minor government official even had a code name said a lot) was ‘Antarctica’. Very fitting, Greg had thought. At least as far as the general population was concerned. Mycroft Holmes didn’t like people. But he adored his little brother.

The little brother who now pretended to be pissed off about missing out on his adventure he was now telling him and John about. All the cities in which Mycroft's people had struck. All the criminals that had been arrested. Probably even more of them had been killed; Greg was not naïve. Sherlock would hardly tell them such details. He only told them what had ended up in the news throughout Europe anyway. And Mycroft would have orchestrated what appeared in the official records.

Greg had felt even worse than during the weeks before when Sherlock's name had been cleared. Anderson had called him in the early morning, sobbing into his ear like a baby. And then John had called him yesterday, telling him that he had met Sherlock. It had been the best shock of his life. To see him now, to have him back – it was like a miracle even though in fact it was just the Holmes men plotting against the rest of the world, together. The same Holmes men that had behaved like cat and dog ever since Greg had met Sherlock for the first time. He had been ‘asked’ to come to Hyde Park half an hour later, where a scary man with an umbrella on the sunniest day of the year had interrogated him with icy blue eyes staring at him as if he was trying to dig in Greg’s brain, which he had most certainly indeed done… Greg had been allowed to work with the man’s little brother, who had surely not known about this conversation. Or probably he had expected it to happen, but not initiated it. Mycroft had always been watching over his baby brother, if Sherlock had wanted that or not, and no – he had never wanted it. And after the stunt Mycroft had pulled this time, Sherlock should have been livid. Outraged. But he wasn’t. He did throw in the odd, mild insult at his brother’s overprotectiveness, but there was no real fury behind it.

John didn’t notice it. He was too happy to have Sherlock back to notice anything, Greg assumed, and who could blame him? He was surprised that John wasn't more pissed off about having been lied to and kept in the dark, but then he had already had a night to get over that, and he had been with the Holmes brothers yesterday already and had certainly heard some apologies. These men didn’t apologise easily, but in this case, they probably had done so. John would, apart from being angry about having to grieve without a reason, have welcomed Sherlock with open arms even if Sherlock had brought some heads of his beaten enemies as souvenirs. Damn, so would Greg have… He was immensely happy to have Sherlock back, and not just because he would hopefully work on his cases again. Not even mostly because Greg had been feeling so guilty because of the man’s alleged suicide. No, he simply loved Sherlock. Like a father or perhaps an older brother.

Not like Mycroft loved him though… His eyes widened in surprise. The thought had attacked him from out of nowhere. But of course it explained everything. Sherlock's awesome looks, his barely concealed happiness despite having missed out on all the fun. His attempt at faking exasperation about Mycroft's actions. He wasn’t just hiding that they had managed to develop a better relationship as brothers because he thought that was embarrassing after seeing Mycroft as a sort of archenemy for ages. No, he really had something much more delicate to hide. If Greg had told him about his conclusions, Sherlock would have probably been proud of his deduction abilities – apart from being totally embarrassed. It would destroy their friendship if he ever addressed this matter, or at least Greg feared it would. So he would never mention it if Sherlock didn’t bring it up.

But he didn’t mind it. If it wasn’t just his dirty fantasy, that is. But if Sherlock was really in love with his brother, and if they had started a relationship way beyond the brotherly one, Greg accepted it. Perhaps even embraced it. Because Sherlock had always seemed so lost. It had gotten a lot better with John taking care of him. But still Sherlock had never really belonged anywhere; too unique and socially awkward he was. But Mycroft was exactly that, too. Who would understand Sherlock better? Who was more obsessed with keeping him safe? No, if they really loved each other, he knew Sherlock in the best of hands. Powerful, protective hands. Who would rip apart everybody who dared lay a finger on the reckless detective. Why they had let Moriarty play his games with Sherlock was still not quite clear to him. But that was okay. He was just an ordinary copper. And Sherlock's friend, even though the lad kept forgetting his first name. Whatever made the difficult boy happy, Greg was fine with it.

“Want some champagne, Greg?” John winked at him, and it was very nice to be forgiven by the man who had suffered the most from allegedly losing Sherlock forever.

“No,” Greg groaned. “And I hope you’ll have some beer for me tonight?” Not that he was so keen on drinking so soon again. But he had wanted to see Sherlock's reaction, and the flicker of real exasperation in Sherlock's eyes came as no surprise whatsoever – not about the beer but the party itself. Sherlock had wanted to spend his first evening back in London in another way.

“Sure. I’ll get some really good one for you,” John promised and downed his tea.

“Will your brother come, too?” Greg asked Sherlock, cursing himself a moment later. He had not wanted to be so obvious.

And Sherlock, sensing his discomfort immediately, stared at him with that same disconcerting look that Greg had learned to rather dislike coming from Mycroft. But apparently Sherlock deduced what Greg thought about the developments, and his eyes widened for a moment before he pulled himself together. “I don’t think so,” he said casually, his eyes not leaving Greg’s for a second.

“Ah, he must. We’ll get some fancy wine for him. I always wanted to see the British Government tipsy,” John chuckled while scratching his head.

Of course that wouldn’t happen. Greg didn’t think that Mycroft ever got tipsy, and certainly not on such an occasion, with Sherlock's friends around. Most of them oblivious and expected to remain so.

“Well, _you_ invite him then,” said Sherlock with a grimace, still looking at Greg, who gave him an almost imperceptible wink. It made Sherlock’s shoulders relax ever so slightly.

“With pleasure,” John agreed. “More tea?”


	12. Chapter 12

This wasn’t how Mycroft had expected or wished to be spending his evening. Well, neither had Sherlock, obviously. His brother looked a bit grumpy. But Mycroft understood very well that his friends, who had so unexpectedly gotten him back, had felt like throwing a party for him. He had been very surprised to receive a text from John Watson, inviting him. Smart of Sherlock to leave it to John to do that. Certainly he had protested against his _‘overprotective brother who had locked me up’_ to be there.

At least they still had John, Mrs Hudson and Molly Hooper to fool, as well as Mike Stamford and Angelo, who had just arrived, happily providing most of the food for the party (he would receive a generous cheque from Mycroft if he wanted to accept it or not). Greg Lestrade had figured it out. That had been quite the shock to learn when Sherlock had texted him about it. But had it really been so surprising? Sherlock thought the man was the usual idiot but he would have really been a bad copper if he hadn’t been observant at all. And really – Sherlock just looked too good to have suffered through his ‘imprisonment’. He was basically glowing and only an idiot could miss it. Well, of course it was quite the stretch to assume it coming from an incestuous relationship, and the rather conservative people among his friends would not imagine it in their wildest dreams. Mike Stamford hardly paid any heed to Sherlock's looks anyway; he was busy with eating all the little niblets Mrs Hudson had prepared. Molly Hooper was of course showering Sherlock with melting looks – but she certainly blamed his appearance on having outsmarted the world in the end. So did John.

There was only one other person Mycroft trusted to figure it out, and that person was now coming over to him with a glass of dark red wine, and one look into her eyes was enough to be sure that she was in the know.

“I hope this is to your liking, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft took the glass with a cautious smile. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I’m sure it’s fine.” She wouldn’t have put something nasty into it. He hoped…

“Not quite up your alley I’m afraid.”

“I’m not as much of a snob as people think,” he smirked, taking a sip after toasting to her. The wine wasn’t bad at all. And so were Mrs Hudson’s instincts.

“No. You are a lot more than people think you are. I can’t thank you enough – for keeping Sherlock from risking his life for us.”

Mycroft felt touched. “I couldn’t have let him go. He loves his adventures but this one would have meant biting off more than he could have chewed. A lot more.” He thought about the agent they had lost. The man’s death had not left him untouched at all. Of course every agent knew what they were risking when they participated in such a mission. But still it was Mycroft's responsibility. He had made sure that the man’s family would receive a generous compensation even though of course that was a poor substitute. The man was dead. And it could have been Sherlock…

“I’m glad you take such good care of him. I hope you will continue to do so.”

Mycroft eyed her closely. Had that been a warning? Or a plea? Probably both. She was okay with them being together but she would be livid if he broke Sherlock's heart or hurt him. He was not out for doing either, naturally. “Of course I will. My brother’s well-being has always been my priority.”

And then she finally smiled at him. “I know that – now. I misjudged you. Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. I was quite ghastly to you sometimes.” He had told her to shut up after all in a very bratty tone not too long ago…

“That’s fine. Consider yourself a part of our little family here. I know _you_ are his family, now more than ever, but we also love him. And there is no need for you to feel threatened by that.”

Damn… This woman was really smart. Because he had always felt like an unwelcome parasite when he had been here. “Thank you,” he said. “That might not be that easy though.” What if John found out? How would he feel about having been deceived again? And because of an incestuous relationship? There was no way to risk that. Not even Sherlock could have been sure how John would react.

“Ah. Just drop by now and then. Show John that you and Sherlock are learning to get along better.” She bent forward and whispered, “Not just how much better exactly you are getting along.”

He blushed a bit; he couldn’t help it. “You are a very wise lady,” he said, and he looked down in surprise when she patted his hand.

“I am. And I can see true love when it happens in front of my eyes.”

Mycroft could just hope that the others were really not able to see it. He briefly glanced at the group of people in the nicely decorated and neat living room of 221B.

The old lady seemed to read his thoughts. “Don’t worry. They are all blind towards it. And if anything happens, you can count on me. And the handsome Mr Lestrade.”

She really didn't miss anything… “That means a lot to us. Well, you haven’t told Sherlock, have you?”

“No. But he will see it in my eyes the next time he talks to me, just like you did,” she smirked, and that was of course to be expected.

Mycroft felt more relaxed than he would have thought possible. Of course he would have preferred being alone with Sherlock but he had to admit this little party had turned out to be quite nice.

“Dinner is ready!” thundered Angelo in this moment, and Mycroft offered Mrs Hudson his arm, and she took it with a smile.

°°°

Sherlock almost choked on his beer when he saw his brother guiding his landlady to the table. And that look in her eyes! The amount of people who knew about their suddenly not-so-secret-anymore secret was alarming. But then… They had all turned out to be allies. Because Mrs Hudson would hardly cast melting looks at his gorgeous brother if she found it icky… And there was no doubt whatsoever that she had indeed figured it out as she cast him a fond look, decorated with a wink, when she sat down opposite of him. Damn… Who would have thought that the people around them were so observant? At least some of his friends (and Mycroft’s clever PA) had proven they that did know a bit about the art of deduction after all… It was almost disappointing that John of all people remained so oblivious. For now at least…

“Made a new friend, Mrs Hudson?” the doctor asked, teasingly but also sounding very surprised. It was hardly a secret that the old lady had never been very fond of Mycroft.

“He’s a gentleman,” she retorted, unimpressed. “Protecting our Sherlock from the nasty criminals out there. I told him that he is always welcome in my house.”

Sherlock snorted, and it was only partly a ruse. “I beg your pardon? It is my _job_ to deal with nasty criminals in case you forgot!”

“Yes, dear. But you’re a detective, not James Bond. Could you hand me the parmesan, please?”

Sherlock was fuming but of course he knew what she had hatched in her cunning brain, and he couldn’t have been more grateful for it. “This is unbelievable,” he muttered while grabbing the bowl and setting it onto the table in front of her with more force than necessary, playing his role of the bratty younger brother.

“Don’t be rude, Sherlock. Mummy taught you better manners.”

“Shut up, Mycroft!” He glowered at his brother, hoping to get across that this was just a game. He saw that Lestrade was looking at them, stuffing his face with pizza to hide his awe and amusement.

“Manners, Sherlock,” John interfered. “You know he was right. You couldn’t have dismantled this huge network on your own. What if you really hadn’t come back?” He shuddered and shovelled some pasta primavera into his mouth.

“Indeed,” said Mrs Hudson in the same admonishing tone which she had used to tell Sherlock that the fridge was not the place for human heads if he didn't plan to cook them. “He did well by keeping you safe, and I apologised to him for being so unkind to him when he dropped by before.”

“Not without reason,” Sherlock muttered, but he had toned the brattishness down a bit.

“You can’t deny that he’s not that bad,” said John, to Sherlock’s surprise.

If Mrs Hudson had never been Mycroft's biggest fan already, John had rather despised him. The grief and the redemption a day ago had made them all soft, Sherlock assumed. Which was only working in his and Mycroft's favour of course. He huffed and shrugged. “If you like him so much, let him pester _you_ then.” He couldn’t drop the masquerade so easily.

“I am not planning to pester anyone,” said Mycroft, with dignity. “But I would like to spend more time with you. You’re my brother and you’re important to me.”

“Hear, hear!” John raised his glass. “So much emotion from you, wow, I’m impressed!”

“Shut up, John!” Sherlock turned to him. “He _can_ do emotion. He just doesn’t like to do so usually because he thinks it makes him appear weak. Must be the wine.”

“Certainly,” agreed Mycroft and took another sip.

“You’re much nicer when you’re tipsy,” Sherlock remarked. “We’ll have to make sure there’s enough alcohol in the house when you come along.”

“You’re really a smartarse,” John chuckled, and Sherlock grinned.

“Heard that before.”

Well, that had been easier than expected, Sherlock thought while they were all concentrating on their meals. He avoided looking at Mycroft and refrained from touching him with his foot as he didn't want to hit someone else accidentally but he could sense that Mycroft, as much as Mrs Hudson’s cleverness must have shocked him, was rather relaxed. And so he was feeling, too. He had underestimated his friends in more than one way, it seemed.

When most of them had just finished eating and the big plates in the middle of the table were almost completely empty, the doorbell rang.

What now? The press?

“I’ll go,” said Mrs Hudson, and hurried to the door. And a minute later she returned, but not alone. Philip Anderson and Sally Donovan were accompanying her.

°°°

Several things happened at once. Anderson threw himself onto the ground, right next to Sherlock's chair. “God, I’m so happy you’re back! I’m so sorry!” He grabbed for Sherlock’s legs and buried his face in his shins.

John Watson and Greg Lestrade shot up from their respective chairs. “You have the _nerve_ to show up here?!” cried John, his face red with wrath, pointing at Sergeant Sally Donovan, whose face was stony.

“Donovan, that’s really not a good idea.” Greg seemed rather desperate.

“ _You_ told them he’s alive, right?” hissed John, glowering at Lestrade now, who just bit his lip and nodded, his shoulders hanging as if he had been accused of having committed a serious crime.

“You are the nasty people who made our Sherlock jump off that roof!” accused Mrs Hudson.

Molly Hooper was looking around like a scared mouse, obviously close to covering her ears. She was obviously not used to being around loud people, Mycroft thought with heavy irony.

“What’s all this shouting?” asked Angelo, looking completely confused. “We’re just having dinner here!”

Mycroft shook his head, amazed by that scene. It had only been a matter of time, or more precisely, of another day until the media would have realised that Sherlock was back at Baker Street. It was rather a miracle they hadn’t already gotten it during the day. So it really wasn’t a big deal that Lestrade had told Anderson, who had been suffering from overloads of guilt, that Sherlock was not actually dead.

He chuckled quietly when he saw how Sherlock was looking down at Anderson as if he was some rare and rather appalling species, perhaps a fourteen-legged bug or a yellow spider with a red skull on its back. Well, probably Sherlock would have been more pleased to see any of the kind instead of the bearded, scrawny scarecrow to his feet. “It’s alright, get up now,” he said, sounding embarrassed, and that meant something. Baby brother wasn’t so easily embarrassed. Everybody else was watching and there was agitated mumbling all over the room.

“I should have believed in you! I should have known it could never be true!”

“Yes, you should,” John said with a graven voice.

“Yes. We should.” Sally was speaking for the first time, and the mumbling stopped. “I… I never believed you could be so clever. Which proves that I’m really an idiot. I know now that I’d done you wrong ever since you showed up at a crime scene. I was eager to believe that you’re a fraud, and I warned Doctor Watson to not work together with you on the very first day, and I repeated it when we arrested you. I’m sorry. It’s all I can offer you.” All this had been said in a completely calm and undramatic tone but Mycroft could sense the genuine guilt behind her words.

He would have loved to wipe her off the earth but then, she had basically only played the role they had cast her for.

Sherlock looked at her, dumbfounded. Then he gave her a brief nod. “It’s alright. You should have known me better, but well. As you said – you’re an idiot.”

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes wide, but then she smiled, and Sherlock smiled back, and Anderson sobbed loudly and nuzzled his face against Sherlock's knee – a bit too close to his intimate parts for Mycroft's liking but Sherlock didn’t even look down anymore.

“You are making it too easy for her,” grumbled John, and Mycroft pondered that he seriously liked the doctor.

Anderson finally scrambled up to his feet again and pulled something out of his jacket. Mycroft thought that it might be a present for Sherlock but then he saw a plain, white envelope. The ex-forensics man handed it over to the detective. “I found that on the steps outside. No sender’s name.”

Mycroft was alarmed at once and so was Sherlock. He glanced at Mycroft questioningly, and Mycroft gestured for him to come around to him.

Sherlock looked at the envelope from all sides and fondled it carefully. “It’s a DVD,” he decided then. Mycroft took the suspicious letter from his hand and saw that it was addressed to ‘Sherlock Holmes. 221B Baker Street. Personal.’

He had a strange premonition. This letter didn’t mean any good news. Who had put this there? Nobody knew so far that Sherlock was still alive, and this hadn’t come with the daily mail. There was no stamp on it. He turned to Sherlock's friends, who were looking at them expectantly. “If you excuse us for a moment? Come. Let’s go into your bedroom.”

Sherlock cast him a side glance that was easy to read – he would have rather gone there for a completely different purpose. Mycroft felt his lips twitch despite his anxiety. “You’ve got a laptop there?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come with you.” John was standing next to them, and Mycroft, who had just thought that he liked the man, couldn’t help but grimace. Whatever this was, it was obviously not meant for Sherlock's blogger’s eyes, but his brother would probably agree.

To his surprise, Sherlock shook his head. “Stay with our guests, please, John. We’ll be right back.”

The short man looked a bit annoyed but he nodded. “Fine. If you need me, just shout.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock gave him a genuine smile, which was immediately returned, and then the two Holmes men walked away from the group of curious, confused people.

°°°

Sherlock knew who had sent this parcel before he even started the DVD. “It’s Moriarty,” he said tonelessly while his computer started to read the device. There had been no letter in the envelope, just the plain DVD but really, who else? But how?

Mycroft nodded, his face serious. “He must have left it with someone who had the order to deliver it to you once you’re back.”

“So someone who was watching the flat.” Certainly after the newspapers had taken their accusations back – God, Moriarty had known a thing or two about foresight as well.

“Probably.”

Sherlock could see that Mycroft was very upset about his surveillance team missing out on this. He was certainly dying to call them and demand an explanation and order someone to look at the video feed from the street cameras. But Sherlock was sure that they would have not caught someone who was recognisable. And he really didn’t want to think that his mission had remained unfinished.

Despite having expected it, he winced when Jim Moriarty’s face and upper body appeared on the screen, wearing a black jacket (Westwood, probably) and a plain blue shirt. He looked as handsome and insane as ever.

‘ _Sherlock! How_ are _you?’_ He grinned into the camera. _‘Well, if you’re watching this, you’ve won. You’ve beaten me. Tricked me. Choose one. Well, congratulations! I’m dead and you’re alive. I underestimated you, obviously. Too smart for me. Well, tough chance.”_ He nodded to himself. _‘Your friends are safe, don’t worry. If you are good enough to beat me, you deserve keeping all those boring pets. Little John, the old wanker. Sooo protective of his master. He would lick your balls within a second if you just snapped your fingers. Mmm. And the grey-head. Wets his pants about you. Not because he’s kinky, oh no. He’s just sooo afraid Little Sherlock could fall and hurt his knees. Pathetic. And that old cunt, Hudders?! Really, Sherlock.’_ He pulled a disgusted face. _‘You’re smart, have I told you already? Yeah. Veeery smart. But you wouldn’t have beaten me alone. Oh no. You would have needed someone with real power to pull this off. Big bro. My mistake. I thought you’d rather bite off your own cock than going to him. Well. You did, obviously. Probably took all my people out, all over Europe. Mmm. My kingdom, finished. And who knows? Perhaps it all led to a family reunion. Perhaps you are best buddies now, you and the Iceman. Well, perhaps you want to overthink that. Because there is something you don’t know.’_ He stopped blathering to grin into the camera.

Sherlock paused the DVD. “What is he talking about?”

Mycroft had paled. And he definitely knew exactly what this crazy man was on about.

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t want to know it. I’ll just throw this away.” He gestured at the laptop.

Mycroft closed his eyes. “And then you will always wonder what he meant. Whether I’d perhaps abused you when you were little, and made sure you don’t remember it. It would destroy what we just found.”

“I know you wouldn’t have done such things. Never, Mycroft. I trust you. A hundred percent. And nothing he says will make me stop wanting to be with you.” He realised what he had just said. He did want to know what this was all about.

Mycroft gave him a sad smile. “We will see how much you will still want me when you know it. Go on. Let him spill the secret.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It is bad but it is not as bad as you forever wondering what he meant.”

Sherlock gulped and let the DVD run again.

‘ _Do you remember that lovely dog of yours? The one you had as a child?’_ Jim asked sweetly. _‘This beautiful Irish setter. You loved to bury your little hands in his fur and he licked your cheek. Aw, how cute he was!’_

Sherlock was taken aback. Yes, of course he remembered Redbeard. Oh, how hard it had been when their parents had to put him down because he had cancer. And then, suddenly, he saw a different picture. He saw the dog turning into a boy while Jim, who had made a dramatic pause, continued to speak.

‘ _It’s all wrong, stupid boy. You never had a dog. Do you remember now? Just a tiny little bit? You, playing Blackbeard the Pirate. And your beloved little friend, Victor, playing Redbeard. He had red hair. He was sweet and innocent and he died, Sherlock; someone killed him.’_

Sherlock’s heart was racing now. He could see himself as a little boy, all unruly black curls and boundless energy. And he saw Victor. Victor Trevor. His best friend. His only friend besides his brother, big, cuddly, chubby Mycroft. He saw them playing at the shore, screaming in pleasure as their shoes and clothes got dirty with mud, and Mycroft standing ten metres away, watching over them like a hawk.

And someone had killed Victor? He couldn’t help but stare at Mycroft, who was sitting there with a stony face, looking as if he was close to running away and never coming back.

No. Mycroft had not done anything to his friend. There was someone else. Someone he could almost grasp…

‘ _It was not big bro, don’t worry. He was such a softie. Still is. He loves you, Sherlock, mmm. No, he didn’t kill Victor. But your sister did. Sweet, dangerous little Eurus. The East Wind.’_

And a myriad of memories flooded Sherlock's brain at these last two words. He could see her now, the pretty girl with the dead eyes, showing her bleeding arm, asking while holding the knife in the other hand, _‘Which one’s pain?’_

He saw himself crying in his mind and he was feeling the loss as if it had just occurred. Victor, having gone missing, and Eurus, not saying a word about his whereabouts until it was too late, just smiling gleefully even as Mummy was shaking her and yelling at her to finally say where he was. And then he saw a burning house and remembered the day when his first childhood home had gone up in flames.

‘ _She’s alive, Sherlock,’_ Moriarty whispered. _‘Mycroft told everybody she’d died when she was six but she didn’t. She lives in a fortress out in the sea, where the worst and craziest criminals are locked away. And she will come to play with you, soon, and there is nothing you can do about it. Sherrinford. Remember the name.’_

He leaned back and opened his arms in a dramatic gesture. _‘This is where I get off. And leave you to your cosy new relationship with your big brother, the big liar. He would have never told you about her until it would have been too late. But of course it still is. You are smart, Sherlock, and Mycroft is even smarter, but Eurus is the smartest one of you. I will leave it to her to finish my plans with you. It’s a shame I won’t be able to be there to watch you fall. For real, this time. Well, of course I warned you of your sister with this. But that doesn’t really matter since she will get you anyway. Look over your shoulder, Sherlock. Soon she will be breathing against your neck. Ciao, my beautiful detective. We could have ruled the world together. Such a shame you’re too boring for that. On the side of the angels, how_ pitiful _. Oh, and don't worry about the delivery of this letter. I paid some harmless sod to watch Baker Street as soon as your name was cleared of all those bad, bad accusations. Could only be a matter of time until you’re back. Enjoy the time with your friends, Sherlock. It will be very limited. Greetings to your brother. See you in hell.’_ And with a last ironic bow, he disappeared and the screen got dark.

For a moment, neither of them said a word. Then Mycroft nodded. “Now you know about her. Do you hate me now?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “You were a child when she allegedly died.”

Mycroft nodded again. “I was. Actually, Uncle Rudy told our parents that she was dead and I simply went on letting them believe it. You had chosen to forget all about her and Victor already. You just wiped them out. Not for good, obviously.”

“I do remember her now. And Victor, too. He was never found?”

“No. She was so jealous of him. You loved him and she was obsessed with you. There is no question that she killed him.”

“And I turned him into a dog… And you never corrected me.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “I thought it made no sense. Your soul… It chose to forget all the pain you suffered after his disappearance.”

“And what about Eurus? She’s been locked up since she was six?”

“Yes. In a high-security prison. She… proved to be very useful for the kingdom. Identifying threats for us.”

“And now she will come after me. And there is nothing we can do.”

“Oh, Sherlock. I had not seen this message coming, I admit that. But the moment Jim Moriarty appeared in your life, I knew that she was behind that.”

“Why? What did she have to do with him?”

Mycroft sighed. “I had to give her something for her… services. Treats. Of all kinds. And she wanted five minutes with Moriarty, a couple of years ago. Five minutes – unsupervised.”

Sherlock gaped at him. “She made him attack me?”

“Yes. There is no other explanation. She guided him.”

“And now she will do what, break out and attack me herself, as he said?” But then Sherlock recalled what Mycroft had said before. “You just told me you knew that she must have orchestrated Moriarty.” He saw Mycroft nod. “And you would have never let that go unpunished. And you foresaw that if he failed, she would take care of me herself.” Obviously, her obsession with him had turned into hatred over the past decades…

Mycroft looked troubled now. “I couldn’t let her get away with that. I should have never let her meet this lunatic.”

“So you…”

“…let her die for real, yes. She was given a substance that made her heart stop. If anyone had even asked, it would have been a natural cause. She was dead to the world for a very long time and now she’s dead for real. It seemed that she was about to manipulate the guards and even the governor into obeying her orders, which would have led to her getting out of there soon enough.” Mycroft’s eyes suddenly looked suspiciously damp. “You will never meet her, Sherlock, I’m sorry and…”

“You think I would have wanted to _meet_ her? Are you mad? Why on earth would I want that?” Jim had thought as well that he would be pissed off at Mycroft for keeping silent about her existence, for letting him go on believing that his best friend had been a dog. But as everything else he had ever done, Mycroft had just wanted to protect him. This was just so Mycroft…

His brother looked taken aback. “So… You are not angry with me?”

Sherlock shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Of course not. One crazy sibling is more than enough, especially when he is so sexy. And so deliciously dangerous…”

Mycroft gaped at him before he moved quicker than Sherlock had ever seen him move and crashed their lips together, and Sherlock chuckled against his mouth and kissed him back for a minute before they reluctantly parted as this wasn’t the time and the place for that with all those people in the flat.

“This made me realise one thing for sure,” Sherlock mused when he had taken the DVD out of his computer and thrown it onto the table.

“That the late Mr M. underestimated you again?”

Sherlock grinned. “That – and that I really want to have a dog.”

“This, brother dear, is an excellent decision. I will go to the shelter with you to pick one if you want.”

“It will be _our_ dog, secretly of course. Naturally I want us to pick it together.” And he liked it very much that Mycroft had immediately suggested a shelter dog, not some fancy puppy with a pompous name and an impressive bloodline.

They shared a smile and another loving kiss before they went back to Sherlock's friends and John’s curious looks, and Sherlock quietly told him that they would talk about the letter later after Mycroft had nodded his agreement.

Anderson got the leftovers of their dinner and Sally clinked glasses with Sherlock, and it was all surprisingly nice. And Sherlock knew for sure now that he was free and that a bright and love-filled new life had just begun.


	13. Epilogue - Two Months Later

“I can’t believe it took us eight weeks to get here.” Sherlock stretched his arms, then he closed the door of the car Mycroft had rented for the weekend. No government car, just a small red Ford Fiesta, which had made Sherlock smile. He had smiled a lot during the ride, too.

Mycroft straightened his shirt – he had foregone wearing a jacket and his trademark sleeve garters. “True. Busy times, little brother. And of course, it’s not so easy for you. Come, Winny. Let’s show you where I seduced your Daddy.”

Sherlock looked down at the little red dog with a smile. Winny sniffed around immediately, his ever-busy tail wagging frantically. Getting him had been the best idea of his life. _Well, perhaps the second best_ , he thought when he glanced at his gorgeous brother, who had the dog on the leash and was looking at him fondly. “And I thought it had been the other way around,” he smirked.

Mycroft winked at him. “He mustn’t know that. He has to think that I’m in charge.”

Shaking his head with a grin, Sherlock got their bags out of the trunk. A full weekend, from Friday late afternoon to Sunday evening, spent in the house where he had started his stay with cursing and hissing at Mycroft and ended with melting in his arms.

And now they had finally found the time to return. John was in Dublin so no problem on this end. He grimaced. Of course he knew that being very discreet about their relationship was a necessity. But it felt wrong having to hide his love for his brother as if it was something nasty and repulsive. They did nothing wrong. Nobody was coerced, nobody was doing anything he didn't want, and the chances of either of them getting pregnant were rather slim. Stupid laws and dated morals, as far as he was concerned.

John did know that they were getting along better. The dog had made things so much easier in that regard.

It had been Sherlock's idea to get him and he adored him, the cheeky little bugger who always seemed to grin and loved everybody he met, but it was Mycroft who was completely infatuated with him, so he dropped by at Baker Street at least twice a week to visit him. John had gaped at them in disbelief at first as he had certainly not expected Sherlock's distinguished brother to be a dog lover but it had finally broken the ice between them to see the man in the fancy suit cuddling a former stray from the streets of Romania. John was very fond of Winny (named after Winston Churchill – Mycroft's idea) as well and took him for a jog every morning. And Sherlock, if there were no pressing cases, took him on long walks in the evening. At least that was what he told John.

He had taken to spending more time without the doctor, and taking the dog out was a perfect excuse. He needed some peace and quiet, and of course he needed to see his lover as often as possible. Which was not very often, unfortunately. But if he managed to see Mycroft in the evening, they let the dog into Mycroft's secure garden and fell into bed or onto the couch or the floor or whatever deemed fitting for a round of passionate love-making. Afterwards, they showered together and had dinner, then they played thoroughly with the enthusiastic dog, who also came to almost every crime scene with Sherlock, behaving better than any copper as Sherlock liked to say.

Working at the crime scenes had been a lot easier since he and Donovan had buried the hatchet. Damn, even this arse of a chief superintendent had apologised to him, even though he had cast a rather scared look at John, who had been trying to hide his grin and casually raised his hand, balled into a fist, to his mouth to scratch his lips.

He had taken some very interesting private cases, too. But he had also turned a lot of them down. He just wasn’t that man who needed to be occupied in every second of the day anymore. Sitting in his chair with the dog on his lap and a book in his hand was a very good way to spend an afternoon. He had… calmed down. And he would have died for going to this place again way sooner but then there had been a conference for Mycroft, or their parents had insisted on visiting London, and there had been this highly-paid case of the stolen painting, and of course John had been around at the weekends, not being intrusive but so happy to have him back, and he would hardly buy that Sherlock was spending a whole weekend with strolling through the park...

At this rate, they would hardly spend any time here, Sherlock thought while he was stepping into the house. Of course they made time for each other in London but it was never enough. With Mycroft's long hours of work and Sherlock's irregular work times, it was a challenge. But one that was absolutely worth it, of course.

He watched Winny exploring the house eagerly. And he winced but then smiled when two long arms were wrapped around his waist from behind.

“You’re alright, lover mine?”

Sherlock grabbed his arms with his hands. “Sorry, Mycroft. I didn’t want to spoil the mood with being glum. Now that I finally have you where I want you.”

“You can have me anytime, Sherlock. It’s not easy, I know.” He kissed Sherlock’s neck on that spot under the ear in this particular way that made Sherlock always go all tingly. “But now it’s just you and me. And our furry child, of course.”

They had brought lots of toys for Winny to keep him occupied when they were occupied with each other. And of course they were going to reward him with long walks in the forest and extended playing in the garden. Sherlock had made sure to bring a cap to hide his curls, and an ugly red jacket instead of his coat to look different. This was not a lonely island after all and it didn’t do to be recognised, especially after he had been all over the news once more when he had returned. He was very glad that this crazy phase was over. He didn’t need all that attention in his life. He only wanted the attention of one person, and that was the one he was kissing eagerly now that he had turned in his embrace to face him and sling his arms around him, too. “I want to go upstairs,” he eventually mumbled against Mycroft's lips, breathless and heated.

“Your wish is my command, little brother.”

°°°

As he had always done lately, Mycroft found himself flat on his back as soon as they were naked in the bedroom that Sherlock had used during his first stay in this house. So much for being in charge, he smirked when Sherlock proceeded to get his sensual lips and elegant fingers on his body. Not that he was exactly complaining… Sherlock’s lips were divine and his hands had learned to pleasure him in the most, well, pleasurable way.

He let himself slump into the pillows, getting all boneless with one certain exception, and enjoyed how his little brother was nibbling at his neck while devilishly tweaking his nipples that were poking out of his fur quite eagerly.

It hurt him to see Sherlock being all pensive and restless when he thought Mycroft didn’t watch him. It wasn’t easy. He had not expected it to be easy of course, but he hadn’t imagined it to be so painful to not be able to spend as much time with each other as they both wanted. Without the excuse of wanting to see Winny (which of course was not a ruse as he loved the little creeper like mad, which had surprised nobody more than him), it would have been even more difficult to come to Baker Street on a more or less regular basis when it was rather clear that they would not be able to see each other in the evening. Neither of them had a nine-to-five job. Sherlock worked on cases more often than not at late hours, and Mycroft sometimes had to attend late meetings or have conference calls with people from overseas.

And they had so far not managed to escape to his house in Croydon once before. There would only be one way to make things easier and it was unfortunately not an option – confide in John Watson. Mycroft was not at all sure that John would react in any negative way but they would have no second chance if he did. But actually, it was a miracle that he hadn’t observed it already. Mycroft made sure though to never leave traces on Sherlock's body as John might see Sherlock without clothes – not something Mycroft liked to think about but they were living together after all, and, God forbid, Sherlock might get injured during a case and since John was a doctor… It did suck to restrain himself during sex, as having sex with his baby brother had quickly become his most favourite thing to do, and surprisingly enough, he wasn’t even feeling guilty about it. Something that felt so great couldn’t be wrong, no matter what the law and society said. And at least they had the blessing of a man of the law (Lestrade) and Sherlock's second mother (Mrs Hudson), as well as Mycroft's ever-clever PA. But John was the most important person to Sherlock, apart from him. It was natural that having to deceive him again and not being able to be open about his new-found love was not easy for Sherlock. And John being pretty clingy after thinking he had lost Sherlock forever and then unexpectedly getting him back didn't make it any easier.

“You’re thinking, brother. That’s unacceptable,” complained Sherlock, hovering over him. “One could think I’m doing a lousy job getting you worked up.”

“Apologies,” Mycroft purred and cupped his face with both hands. “Perhaps it will help if you suck my cock?”

“Well, then I must lower myself to this appalling task,” agreed Sherlock, moving down on his body.

“Repulsive,” nodded Mycroft, and he felt a shiver in his body when he looked down at himself, seeing his large, blood-filled appendage, standing straight up to welcome his brother’s luscious lips. It was a sight to keel over at, and when Sherlock’s wet, hot mouth engulfed his throbbing knob, he indeed stopped thinking and gave himself to the devious ministrations of his born cock-sucker of a little brother.

°°°

Reducing Mr _Neat/Impeccable/Control_ to a quivering mess had quickly become Sherlock's favourite thing to do. And this task was never accomplished quicker than with sucking his tasty, large prick. It wasn’t very convenient to go cross-eyed to be able to watch his brother’s reactions, from his flushing cheeks to his curling hair, from unconsciously licking his lips to huffing and puffing in arousal, but it was definitely worth the effort. Fondling Mycroft's massive, furry balls and applying the odd rougher pull, Sherlock deftly swallowed him, outmanoeuvring his gag reflex with ease now (after some rather embarrassing first tries of deep-throating), enjoying the slightly bitter droplets of pre-come eliciting from Mycroft's slit. He was producing rather indecent noises and loved every moment of it.

He always ended on bottom with Mycroft fucking the living daylights out of him, and he loved it, but getting his brother into the right mindset to do so by teasing him until he almost tumbled over the edge was a big part of the fun. Perhaps they would switch places someday but Sherlock had discovered that he harboured a strong preference for submitting to Mycroft when it came to anal sex. Which was kind of ironic, considering how he had always tried to escape his excessive controlling. But sex was not about inflicting power. It was a game of two equals and they just fit together like two pieces of a very unique puzzle. It could have never been anyone else. For neither of them.

He realised that Mycroft was rapidly tumbling towards orgasm now and let his fat cock go with a plop.

“You look a bit worked up, brother,” he said with a playful frown. “Is everything alright with you?”

“Brat!” howled Mycroft and Sherlock chuckled when he was grabbed and manhandled onto his back.

Of course Mycroft would not start fucking him right away; big brother would never press his massive member into Sherlock's arse without proper preparation. Which was good in more than one way. It made sure Sherlock wouldn’t get split in two and it gave Mycroft time to cool down a bit before entering him, keeping him from spilling his load way too soon. As far as Sherlock was concerned, being taken by big brother couldn’t last long enough.

And when Mycroft was finally fully seated in him, missionary style, Sherlock had his arms and legs slung around him and was panting in sync with his lover, feeling more content than he had ever thought possible before this extraordinary relationship had begun.

°°°

The days went by way too fast. They made love excessively, cooked together and played with Winny until the dog surrendered, panting and offering his cute little belly for extensive rubbing. They talked and held hands, both open in their displays of affection. Mantras like ‘caring is not an advantage’ were never to be heard these days.

On Sunday evening, when they had packed their stuff already, they were standing in the garden, arms tightly wrapped around each other.

“We’ll come back very soon, Sherlock,” Mycroft mumbled against his temple. “I think I should finally start to delegate a few things.”

Sherlock looked up and smiled, a warm feeling engulfing his heart. “For me?”

“For us. And I don’t get younger.”

“You’re very young and very fit,” Sherlock protested, not because he wanted Mycroft to go on working himself into the ground but shuddering at the implications of what he had said.

“Ah, not planning to go anywhere, Sherlock.” Mycroft kissed his cheek. “But I would love to spend some more time with you.”

Sherlock cupped his cheeks. “That sounds great. I’m in. I'm getting too old to run after criminals all the time as well.” It had lost a lot of its appeal, anyway. John had not been blogging a lot anymore since Sherlock had returned after expressing his relief about having him back. Connecting with the public was not something the doctor was still very fond of after what had happened before Sherlock's ‘death’.

“We will figure it out, little brother. We’ll figure it all out.” It was a promise, and Sherlock highly appreciated it.

But when they got into the car, Sherlock dreaded having to leave nonetheless.

°°°

It was almost ten pm when Sherlock stepped into the living room of 221B, feeling pensive and tired. The bag was feeling heavier than when he had carried it out, without any scientific explanation, but Sherlock was well aware of the emotional one.

John was sitting in his chair in a pair of slacks and one of his particularly hideous jumpers, a book on his knees. He smiled and bent down to greet the very excited dog, who was behaving as if he hadn’t seen John for months.

“Hey, little chap! Had a good weekend? With your two dads?” He cuddled Winny behind his ears.

Sherlock had stopped dead, hardly registering that the bag slid out of his hand to end up on the floor with a thud. He only briefly allowed himself to think that John might not have meant it the way he thought. But of course he did, and his next words cut deep into Sherlock's heart.

“Daddy Sherlock thinks I’m an idiot. An idiot he can’t trust.”

Sherlock opened his mouth but nothing came out.

“Didn’t trust me with his fake death, doesn’t trust me with him being in love.” Finally John looked up, his fingers still busy with caressing the silky head, not bothering in the least that the dog kept licking his digits.

“Since when…” Sherlock broke off. His voice had sounded embarrassingly squeaky.

John nodded. “Only for a few days. Should have known it a lot sooner but sometimes it does take me some time to observe and not just see, as you always reproached me for. Sometimes I’m an idiot who doesn’t see what’s right before his eyes. And sometimes _you_ are the idiot for thinking you can’t trust me.”

“John…”

“I watched you. When I finally had the suspicion, it was so obvious. Those looks when you thought nobody is looking at you. All your long ‘walks’.” John mimed quotation marks. “Mycroft dropping by to see the dog.”

“He loves the dog.”

“Oh yes, no doubt. But he loves you a bit more.”

Sherlock stumbled to his chair and let himself drop into it. “It hurt me to not tell you.” He had told John about Eurus, which had been a big secret. But he had not dared tell him that.

John gave him a sad smile. “You did tell Mrs Hudson.”

“No. We didn’t plan to confide in anyone. But she figured it out, and so did Lestrade.”

That came as a surprise to John. “Damn. He’s good at hiding that. Accepted you, both of them? Immediately?”

“Surprisingly enough, yes.” Sherlock took the dog onto his lap when he scratched at his knee.

John nodded. “Took me a while to… wrap my mind around it. It’s not something that happens every day.”

“We’re not hurting anyone. He didn't coerce me. It was me who made the first step. In that house.”

“Yeah. But he felt like this for you before.” It was not a question.

Sherlock nodded. “I never realised it.”

“He even kidnapped me to make sure I’m good enough for sharing a flat with you. And then he wanted me to spy on you. Well… Guess he wouldn’t have been sad if I had accepted it and pissed you off.” John gave him a wry smile.

Yes. That sounded like Mycroft… He had never spoken about that with him. Well, his brother was allowed to have some secrets. Even after the really big one had blown up. “Probably not, no,” Sherlock agreed. “I’m sorry, John. I… I just didn't know how you would react. It could have repulsed you.”

“Yeah. Perhaps it did. For a short while. But the arguments you just mentioned… They went through my head as well. You are not harming anyone. And… You are happy. That’s why I should have realised it as soon as you were back. You behaved as if you were upset about him for locking you up but… I should have seen it. I’m still hurt, you know. I’m your friend. Your best friend, I thought.”

“You are, John, of course you are!” He and Mycroft, obviously.

John shrugged. “Well, I was never _his_ best friend though so he wouldn’t have wanted you to tell me, naturally. I get that. But so soon after that last huge lie…”

“I am really sorry. It means so much to me that you have learned to… accept us.” There was half a question in his voice.

“I do,” nodded John. “It’s not my business anyway. I was not a hundred percent sure if I was even right. So I faked that trip to Dublin, knowing you would act as soon as I’m away. Don’t worry, I didn't follow you. To that house? Yeah, thought so. I stayed with Harry and came back this morning. And I told Mrs Hudson to not call you. She was pretty afraid.” John huffed out a laugh. “God, I really must be an arsehole if everybody thinks I would attack you for being in love.”

“No, I don’t think that.” Not really. Perhaps just a bit.

John saw it in his eyes and sighed. “I almost did when I found out that you’re alive. So well. Maybe I deserve it. But listen, Sherlock. I’m on your side. Always was. You mean the world to me. No, not in any romantic way of course. You’re like my brother. Well…”

Sherlock chuckled. “Yeah. Slippery ground, that.” He was feeling both troubled and happy. “I’m so glad. Thank you, John.”

The doctor nodded. “He can come over whenever he wants. And you won’t need any excuses anymore when you go out to see him.”

Of course it made things so much easier. But that was not the only reason for Sherlock to feel heavily relieved. John was such an integral part of his life that deceiving him had weighed him down harder than he had even wanted to admit to himself.

“I think I’ll go to bed now.” John got up.

Sherlock followed his example, setting Winny onto the floor. “And I think I’ll go to Mycroft.”

John grinned. “You just parted, right? God. Young love.”

“He’s great, John. I never knew.”

“Well, good for you. Good for him. And yeah… You make quite the handsome pair, objectively spoken… My regards to him, hm?”

And then Sherlock stepped forward and embraced John, and the doctor stiffened for only a second before he chuckled and hugged him back fiercely, almost crushing Sherlock's ribs. And Sherlock felt the embarrassing urge to cry, and he blinked heftily, making John shake his head fondly when they parted.

“Sappy sod,” he teased Sherlock.

“All Mycroft's fault.”

“Of course.” John winked. “Go to your lover, Sherlock. And tell him it’s not necessary to bury me in the woods.”

“He will be very disappointed.”

“I bet.”

The two Baker Street boys shared another grin before Sherlock grabbed his dog to leave the flat he had only entered a few minutes ago, eager to be with the man he loved after the man he had called his best friend for years had just proven that he deserved this title.

°°°

When the mattress next to him dipped, Mycroft had only just dropped off, and he sleepily blinked, curling his arms around the warm body that was snuggling against his, grinning at the warm tongue that was licking his cheek. There had not been a moment of being startled or frightened. He instinctively knew that it was his lover – with their dog. And it didn't take much of a deduction to figure out what had happened.

“John found out?” he asked when they had broken apart after a minute of excessive tongue-tangling. Winny had jumped off the bed and had left the bedroom as if he wanted to give them some privacy.

“Yes. He wasn’t even in Dublin.”

And he had taken it well. Which had taken a weight off Sherlock's heart. A heavy weight. “Amazing,” Mycroft mumbled against his cheek.

“Yes. He was pretty pissed off that I hadn’t told him. But we’re fine.”

Mycroft smiled. “That’s great.”

“Will still get a bit awkward for all of us when you drop by next time,” chuckled Sherlock.

“Probably. But we’re big boys.”

“Speaking of…”

Mycroft grinned when a warm hand worked its way into his pyjama pants. “Oh dear. Now you’ll demand sex a lot more often, won’t you?”

“Problem?” Sherlock started stroking his rapidly stiffening cock.

“Not one.” And Mycroft gladly handed himself over to his brotherly lover’s deft hands, his eager mouth and the love that was radiating from him, and when he finally sank into Sherlock's thoroughly prepared heat, baby’s brother’s strong legs wrapped around his waist, he felt almost ridiculously happy, knowing his brother to be where he belonged – in his bed, in his heart and in his ever-protective hands.

The End


End file.
